


A Night In The Park

by carolinelamb



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Hannibal (TV) RPF, Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anal douche, Anonymous Sex, Casual Sex, Crossdressing, Cruising, Double Anal Penetration, Dubious Consent, Enema (not too graphic I think), Forced Feminization, Gangbang, Humiliation, M/M, Madancy, Minor Violence, PWP, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Hatred, Slut Shaming, Verbal Humiliation, Watersports
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-03
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-04-18 20:45:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4719851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolinelamb/pseuds/carolinelamb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is going to be his last time. </p><p>Hugh opens the seat belt, hesitating for only the briefest of moments. He could sit here for a while, stare into nothingness, finally take a deep breath and drive home. (He could go back to his hotel right now. He doesn’t need to do this.)</p><p>Instead he opens the door. Immediately his heart starts racing, beating against his rib cage. He feels nauseated, even after so many times, still not believing he is doing what he is doing, that he is that type of man. </p><p>It seems, he is exactly that type of man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Night At The Park

**Author's Note:**

> Please check the tags carefully before you continue to read. 
> 
> I promise you, I am not going to handle anyone or anything in this fic in a remotely respectful way.
> 
> Re: Warning for Rape/Non-Con. I'm not entirely sure if this tag is even warranted, but given the nature of Mads and Hugh's encounter(s) I thought I add it to be on the safe side.
> 
> Please tell me if this fic needs further warnings or tagging.
> 
> Thank you very much and I love you.
> 
> * * *

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hugh thinks he's clever. Mads disagrees.

It takes Hugh a while to find his car. The hotel’s parking garage is huge and it’s a new rental car. 

After he has found it, he drives around for a while, more or less aimlessly, until he is absolutely sure no one is following him, the radio a little too loud to ease his nervousness. Although the windows are tinted he wears a baseball cap, just for his own comfort. 

He drums his fingers nervously on the wheel, whistling through his teeth. Every now and then he glances into the back mirror.

It’s almost midnight when he arrives at his destination. Like usual he indulges himself with a short fat bump of coke. Just as Bruce Springsteen starts belting out _Born In the U.S.A._ , he turns the radio off, leaning back in his seat. 

He hates coming here. He despises himself for coming here, and coming here is really an act of self-loathing and he needs to stop, and he knows he needs to stop and he can. 

He can and he will. 

(Fuck, he is already hard.)

He is high on a self-destructive addiction and tonight he is going to put an end to it.

This is going to be his last time. 

He opens the seat belt, hesitating for only the briefest of moments. He could sit here for a while, stare into nothingness and finally take a deep breath, then drive home. (He could go back to his hotel right now. He doesn’t need to do this.)

Instead he opens the door. Immediately his heart starts racing, beating against his rib cage like the wings of a trapped bird. He feels slightly nauseated, even after so many times, still not believing he is doing what he is doing, that he is that type of man. 

It seems, he is exactly that type of man. 

(Heat is crawling up his spine, oh God, it feels so good.)

He rolls his head back, listening to the satisfying crack in his neck, exhales & inhales. 

„Let’s go then,“ he mutters to himself, exits the car, finds the large hole in the wire fence. Sometimes he stalls for time here, to give himself the opportunity to return to the car but tonight he quickly pushes the wire apart and slides through. 

As usual, he tells himself, how one of these days he’ll get robbed. It’s bound to happen—a guy like him, in his stupid barbour jacket, with his 300$ hair cut and his even more expensive, carefully rugged leather boots, alone in this park. He is a walking invitation. 

It’ll make the news. People will ask what he did here. Within days it’ll all come out. And then his entire life would crumble. Everything he’d worked so hard for would be gone in a matter of days, of hours.

(He also feels a weird, perverse joy when he is imagining the worst case scenario in depth.)

His mouth feels dry. He stops, determined to turn around, drive home.

He’ll watch sports, drink a few beers, he’ll watch some porn in his study, jerk himself off and that will be the end of the story.

Then he continues walking, of course.

Enveloped by the smell of grass, earth and faint decay he wades further into the park. 

He knows his way around now. He has to shield his face with his arms to protect it from swinging branches, the occasional thorny bush but in a few minutes he crosses a trail which during the day is mostly frequented by joggers. 

It’s only a park but for a moment he childishly imagines himself in a cursed fairy tale forest.

He feels a strange rush of something—danger, danger and danger, fear, hunger, and things begin to fall away from him, layers of lies and pretense, and he knows this is why he comes here—because if he wouldn’t he would have gone mad a long time ago.

(He would have gone fucking insane.)

Once he’s on the trail the surroundings are more carefully manicured, ponds here and there, Japanese styled round rocks, winded earthen paths and tracks. It always—he searches for the right word— _resonates_ with him, the way the park is somehow both wilderness and trimmed, pruned nature.

Soon he can make out a clearing in the distance, only weakly lit by the flickering, fluorescent light of the neon tube hanging askew over the entrance of a public restroom. By now his eyes have gotten used to the dark.

He can’t see exactly how many guys are milling around—only their silhouettes, a shoulder here, an arm there, hands holding beer cans and bottles, the orange glowing tips of cigarettes—but it’s relatively crowded. Most of them are here to fuck, get a quick blow job or to suck cock. (Surprisingly there are always a few who just stand around and watch, then leave without doing anything.) The lights around here usually don’t work—on the rare occasion the park’s maintenance staff even bothers to change the bulbs, someone will sure as hell knock them out the very next night. A few men are huddled together, some of them sharing drinks in brown paper bags, chatting in low voices, leaning against the concrete wall beside the darkened entrance. Some of them are posturing, wide gestures, louder voices, laughing—the young boys. 

The older guys are leaning against the wall with milder expressions on their faces but sharply watching the boys, already picking them out. 

Before Hugh steps into that pale circle of light, he pulls the baseball cap down so it covers the upper half of his face, pulls his hoodie up, puts the sunglasses on.

„Hey,“ someone at his side murmurs, groping him quickly. Hugh smiles thinly, slips past him. 

One of the most popular pastimes is to get busy in the dilapidated toilet stalls with one of the boys, but he was quickly bored and unfulfilled by furtive fucks. That's not what he is after.

„Suit yourself,“ the other says, not unfriendly. 

Hugh walks up to that one bench right at the edge of that circle of light, half of it being swallowed by the darkness. It's not unlike the stages in one of the small theatres he worked as a young actor. Coming here involves a transition, very much like acting. By disguising himself he assumes a role, becomes someone else. It's all about a willingness to transform he thinks. Or maybe it’s getting rid of a role—something falls off his shoulders. He hates how he feels truer to himself here. There is always this palpable sense of relief flooding him, eroding that sense of self he usually wears like an armour, and that act makes his blood thrum, his spine tingle, his hands shake slightly.

(He feels his cock pressing against his pants, his hole twitching.)

It's an illusion, he chides himself firmly. This here (the park, the trees, the men, the night) is _not_ him—this is something twisted and dark. It’s a tumor inside him, and coming here feeds the growth, and he just needs to stop doing this, then that ugly thing inside him might dry up and crumble.

He just can’t stop _right now_. Not now.

(One day he might. One day he will. Maybe soon.)

But _right now_ his life is this flat ocean, this grey and never ending dullness, and all the time he feels a part of him is drowning slowly, and he must take all the measures he can to somehow keep afloat. 

(He needs to stop, he tells himself, again.)

Hugh grips the back of the wooden bench with both his hands, just to steady himself—to anchor himself in this moment (and also to draw it out. Make it last. It’s might be the last time he tells himself.)

Some of the guys are approaching him. He can hear their voices, their steps. He grins to himself, he can’t help it. They’re like stray dogs sniffing out a bitch in heat.

He pulls down his pants, shivering when the cool night air hits his bare skin, takes out the lube from his pocket. He uncaps it quickly, then squeezes a big dollop into the palm of his right hand. It’s thick and gooey and whitish, specifically chosen for tonight.

With his feet planted apart he reaches behind and begins to play with his hole, work that stuff properly in.

Someone standing close to him, sucks his breath in.

„You’re not fucking around,“ he says, then „bad choice of words, sorry haha.“

Hugh’s face twists itself into a manic grin again, almost involuntarily, though no one can see it—the hoodie covers most of his face. The mix of arousal and nervous giddy-ness makes him feel lightheaded.

He pushes another finger inside his body, moans in a low voice and arches his back, like a cat.

Within the next four or five minutes he hears a bit of commotion behind him—he doesn’t need to turn around to know that some of the men are leaving or going into the restroom, not particularly keen on Hugh’s public display or they’re just not into topping—but some other guys come to watch and to partake, palming themselves through their denims. Once the crowd has consolidated, Hugh begins to rock himself against his own fingers, doing nothing to stifle his needy gasps.

He can hear belt buckles clang and zippers being opened, sounds that never fail to make his hole twitch in anticipation. 

Soon enough a hard, stiff cock is pressed against his tailbone and cleft and he pulls his fingers out, pressing back at that cock. With a soft grunt the man behind him pushes in, without any regard for Hugh who sucks in his breath between his teeth at the sharp sensation.

„Yeah, fuck that bitch,“ someone says, and a few laugh. 

Hugh bites his lower lip hard and pushes back harder, an unmistakable challenge.

He relishes the intense pain, clenches down as hard as he can onto that dick. The man speeds up, panting. His hands feel hot on Hugh’s skin. When he aims at his prostate, Hugh reaches behind, slows him down.

He doesn’t want to come already. He wants it to build and build and build until he is filled up with cum and sensation and lust to the brim. The man understands and continues fucking him, but the thrusts are slower. He’s being pushed against the back of that bench, and Hugh loses himself in the steady pounding. 

„Look at that slut,“ a hoarse voice behind him says, and Hugh wants him to go on. He wants to hear more.

„Fuck this cock-hungry bitch,“ the guy says, and Hugh spreads his legs wider, raises his ass, whimpering.

With a loud groan the man empties himself, and Hugh pants at the feeling of the warm wetness filling him, the twitching of his stiff, aching cock. 

The man pulls out, wipes his softening cock in Hugh's cleft. Hugh can hear him walk away. Like usual he resists the urge to turn around and look. He doesn’t want to risk being recognised. Instead he remains in position, his legs spread, cum trickling down his legs, ready for the next cock.

Someone else—Hugh assumes it’s the guy who was talking dirty to him before—lines his cock up behind him, begins to tease his hole and wet cleft. 

„Want that?“

Hugh whines.

The man laughs, but takes his time. None of the roughness of the first guy, this one is about teasing. Hugh is willing to play—he’s got time tonight and the way he feels, he’ll need a lot of cock to calm down.

„You’re a lil bitch in heat, huh?“ the guy says in his low voice, pressing a slim but rock-hard shaft onto his tailbone, but still not entering him. 

Hugh moans softly, raising himself up on his toes—imagining himself being a bitch, presenting, consumed by that biological need to be bred. He imagines himself, his person wiped out by pure animalistic instinct and nature.

Finally the guy enters him, but he only puts his cock head in, letting the rim catch on the ridge of his glans, pulls out again, repeats his movements getting slower and slower. Hugh’s thighs begin to tremble.

Finally the man sinks all the way into Hugh’s feverish, hot body, still too slow, despite Hugh urgent movements. He cries out in pathetic gratitude, claws at the bench. The man delights in letting him chase his cock, and Hugh rests his forehead on the back of the bench, biting his wrist to keep himself from begging.

It’s a very slim, very long cock, and Hugh is grateful for the pain-pleasure—buried deep enough to make him feel thoroughly fucked but not thick enough to put too much friction on his prostate, prolong the torturous plateau of lust right before he cums. 

„What a greedy cunt,“ the man behind him says, holding him in place by grabbing his buttocks, then delivers shallow, short thrusts, literally fucking the air out of Hugh’s lungs.

He releases a low moan when the guy comes all over his arse and his back, hot cum cooling in the night air.

One guy after the other takes him. There are some who enjoy hurting him—fuck him hard and fast, without mercy or regard, fill his hole up with their cum or spray it onto his back. Some like to fuck him more tenderly, try to make him cum and Hugh swims in a wave of bliss. 

That particular high he is chasing though is hard to achieve tonight—that moment where he somehow stops existing and he kind of floats. 

Every now and then one of the guys takes his heavy, stiff cock into hand, coats his shaft with his own precum which is dripping down onto the ground in a steady trickle. Hugh, anxious about cumming before this is over, before he hasn’t been used and fucked by all these men around him, writhes.

He needs more. He should be ashamed to crave being dominated and he _is_ —he knows the shame will crush him later but right now it adds to his arousal, makes his cock even harder, makes him all the more eager and greedy.

He craves it all: the public fucking, the roughness of the men. His mind plays out scenarios of him getting completely naked, letting them see his face or tug his curls and push him face first into the ground, letting them kick him even. 

He knows he is a junkie, determined to get his hit, and every time, with clock work precision, he’ll realise that despite his intentions to stop, he won’t.

Finally the last of the men, (a boy really judging from his voice) cums inside him, mercilessly fucking into him, as if he doesn’t even exist, as if he’s just a hole (and oh God, it’s so fucking good and really, this is, if Hugh is truly honest with himself all he has been looking forward this week), pushing Hugh’s already aching, dripping cock against the wooden back of the bench. He can feel that cock twitching inside him, and grateful he clenches around it. 

Whistling the boy zips up his pants and saunters away.

Hugh can’t move for a while, so he just remains in this position, with his pants around his ankles, still hard, copious amounts of cum running down his thighs. He reeks of cum and sweat.

When he does finally try to straighten up, he finds someone has left a full condom on his left butt cheek. Very funny. He flicks it off him.

Hugh wonders how many of the guys who had him tonight had him already last week. And the week before. He briefly wonders if some of them come here every week in anticipation of him. Maybe some of those fuckers leave their offices early on Friday afternoons, already hard when they think of that cum dumpster waiting for their cocks in the park.

He takes himself finally in hand, jerking himself off, but the orgasm that seemed so close just moments ago, suddenly eludes him. He’s slipped off the plateau, and he strokes harder and faster, reminiscing some of the things the guys told him today. Being called a cumslut usually always does it for him but tonight it's to no avail. 

Someone moves behind him, towards him, slow, shuffling hesitant steps. Ah, so it’s not over. Hugh thanks his luck star, and gets in position again. 

A newcomer, Hugh senses, and he feels a new wave of excitement. 

Gravel is crunching beneath sneaker soles.

One last fuck he tells himself. 

(And then he’ll stop. Maybe. At least he’ll stop for a month. A month is a decent length of time, he can do a month.)

Hugh lets his hand fall off his dick and gets into position, presents his ass to the new guy, grips the back of the bench. 

New guy walks in a, what seems, semi-circle around him—he might be indecisive. Hugh remains patient—sometimes newbies appear on the cruising scene, young guys who embark onto their first foray of anonymous fucking or married dads who, in their mid-life crisis decide to feed the urges they have long suppressed. They need a bit more time, a bit more coaxing. Hugh puts a hand on his ass, kneads it a little, playfully slaps it, lets it jiggle a bit.

Finally the guy steps closer, and the hand he puts onto Hugh’s sticky bum is warm and calloused. All thoughts about him being a newcomer evaporate when two thick fingers bury themselves deep in his hole and immediately find his prostate, stroking it. 

Certainly not a beginner. 

The man twists his fingers, and Hugh’s jaw falls slack, heat shooting up from his swollen prostate through his entire hole. He clenches around the man’s hand. He raises his hand to bite into its back but the man pulls it away and twists it unto his back, grips it firmly.

When he tries to struggle, the fingers bury themselves deeper, in a caressing motion, and Hugh’s vision whitens out. 

He always tries not to make too much noise, apart from the occasional grunt but now he is crying out loud.

„Our little cum slut really likes you,“ a guy to Hugh’s left says. The man finger-fucking him says nothing, only snorts, and it sets a little bell of recognition off in Hugh’s lust-addled brain. He’s heard that snort before. He knows the voice.

The guy deliberately teases him, withdrawing his fingers, rubbing his swollen, doubtlessly reddened rim, then plunging them back in. During some of his thrusts he keeps the fingers straight so they barely brush that sweet spot in him, and Hugh has to arch and writhe, then he seems to decide to have tortured him enough, crooking the fingers, stroking his sweet spot in a perfect rhythm, causing Hugh to moan in a low, needy voice, vaguely aware he is the most vocal he’s ever been.

He craves more, something thick and hot and hard. The fingers are not enough and yet the guy doesn’t seem to be in a hurry.

He can smell cigarette smoke, then the butt falling to ground, and in an uncharacteristic move Hugh moves his left hand away from the bench to aid him with unzipping. He wants to feel this cock in his hand, wants to fuck himself on it.

A few guys whistle. 

„What a fucking disgusting whore you are,“ the man finally says.

Oh God.

Hugh knows this voice … just, he can’t believe he heard it right now. Because it can’t be. 

It just can't be, a non-sensical, hysterical voice in Hugh’s mind babbles, it just can’t be, it’s impossible, please don’t let it be him. Please let me be wrong. 

It’s Mads’ voice. 

Oh God.

No no no no no.

It can’t be, Hugh’s by now admittedly largely useless brain tells him again and again. It can’t be Mads. 

Hugh had been so careful. The rental car, the little discreet hotel he stashed his clothes in, he even has a (sort of) lookalike driving around in a similar car, just to throw paparazzi off, he had a locker in a station in the middle of nowhere, he had been so fucking careful.

„The only thing worse than a slut is a stupid cum slut like you,“ Mads whispers into his ear.

It really is him.

Hugh wants to cry—to shake him off and crawl away. He _is_ crying he realises, hot fat tears running down his cheeks, while he is attempting to twist himself out of Mads’ grip.

„You really thought hiring your stupid lookalike, your rental car was a good idea, didn’t you. You thought you’re smart.“ 

Mads sharply yanks his head back.

Hugh tries to dislodge his arm.

„Please ... let go of me,“ he grits out.

Mads slides his cock in.

( _Fuck_.) Oh God it's fucking good, it feels amazing.

It’s every inch as thick— _thicker_ —as Hugh has imagined just a few moments before, and before he even knows what he is doing he is pushing back onto it, his face going slack with pleasure. 

„Still want me to stop?“ Mads asks, almost silkily, that fucking _asshole_ , still bent over him, his breath hot on Hugh’s cheekbone and ear, „want me to pull out?“

He begins to pull out, sadistically dragging his cock over his sweet spot as he does, and Hugh feels his entire body twitching, betraying him.

„Nngh,“ is all the eloquence he can muster.

Mads pushes in again and Hugh shakes with pleasure. When he doesn’t speak, only communicates in his little whimpers and moans, Mads sighs an irritated way, as if he doesn’t give a fuck and stills his movements, although his cock is hard like a steel pipe and hot and swollen. He grips Hugh’s hips, keeping him from fucking himself on his cock.

„Say it,“ Mads demands, „beg me for it, you whore, or I swear I leave you here—„

„Please,“ Hugh hears himself say to his utter abject horror, „please _please_ don’t stop.“

The few guys who are still here, cheer again. 

„You love cock so much, you risk everything for that, you filthy slut.“ Mads thrusts into him. 

He pushes Hugh's head deep down, so he is nearly hanging over the back of the bench, then slaps his ass hard. 

Everything about this is wrong and surreal and fucked up in the most literal sense of the word, and yet Hugh can’t get his brain together to push Mads off him and pull his fucking pants up and leave.

All he can do is beg for more, all he does is to take it while Mads heaps insults and taunts on him and there is no way for him to hide what it does to him—how his cock twitches, how he screams and begs. His needy hole convulses around Mads' cock, he can't even help it.

He wonders if he can last longer than Mads, but Mads fucks him with ruthless precision, never faltering, every thrust hitting exactly the spot that makes Hugh come undone. 

„You worthless cum slut,“ Mads taunts him, „you pathetic whore.“

Sobbing, Hugh can feel his entire body arching, the heat finally taking over and pulling him over the edge. His hole is clamping down on Mads’ cock, and he knows he’s never come as intensely as he is coming now, has never been filled with so much bone-melting lust.

Mads delivers another particularly punishing hard thrust and Hugh can fill his cock throb and twitch, then warm-hot wetness floods him.

Hugh can’t move for a while. He just hangs over the back of the bench, exhausted, defeated. 

Almost clinically he registers Mads pulling out—he’s on his phone, that fucking asshole, talking in Danish, while he is wiping off his cock on Hugh’s sweater—then sauntering away without even a goodbye. 

Slowly he bends down, pulling up his pants. Every movement causes warm cum to seep out of his gaping, reddened hole and run down his thighs.

He feels dirty—filthy, discarded—and usually he relishes that feeling. He holds on to it, not even bothering to wipe himself down after being thoroughly used like a whore. The part of him reveling in all of that doesn’t mind the heavy smell of sex, semen and sweat but this time he feels exposed.

Some of the men behind him laugh. 

He can’t remember ever being so utterly humiliated and although he is horrified when thinking of the possible consequences, he cannot deny that his entire body is shaking, can’t deny the state of arousal he is still in.

His phone beeps.

A message from Mads.

„I have some friends who need a hole to fuck,“ it says, „Next Friday, eight o’clock in my hotel.“

He closes his eyes.


	2. Party Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, of course Hugh turns up at 8pm at the hotel, because he wants to set things straight with Mads and salvage their friendship.
> 
> No, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote more. Not gonna insult your intelligence by pretending I'm sorry.
> 
> As usual I don't do plot, just porn. Also unbeta'ed.
> 
> I love you and wish you all belated happy holidays.
> 
> * * *

This is how it will all go down:

He’s going to text Mads at eight o’clock to let him know, he didn’t forget (as if). He’s going to be at Mads’ hotel somewhere around eleven at night. He’s going to knock at Mads’ door. Mads is going to open wearing his damned Adidas track suit with a beer in his hand, smelling of booze and cigarettes. 

Hugh’s not going to step fully inside. He is not going to sit down. 

(He is certainly _not_ going to sink down to his knees, pull down Mads’ track pants, mouth his cock, breathe in the musk and rub the hard, hot flesh against his cheek. Fuck, no, _that_ won’t happen.)

Instead he is going to hover near the door, indicating that he won’t be here long, then if Mads doesn’t say anything, he will start speaking, in a clear, determined but warm voice.

„I am here as your friend,“ he will say. 

There. That is a good line. It oozes sincerity, and Mads likes sincerity.

Mads won’t answer probably, just tilt his head and watch him and take a sip from his beer.

(And Hugh will not watch how red and full Mads’ lips look, will not look at Mads’ adams apple moving.)

„So, about last week,“ he’d say, smiling, even though Mads won’t smile.

„What about it?“ Mads would say. Maybe. Or maybe he’d just stay silent and grin sheepishly.

„Well, last week was last week,“ Hugh would say, „okay? But nothing’s gonna ever happen again. Between us. I want us to remain friends, maintain our respect for each other.“

Mads would maybe purse his lips, the way he does, when he is thinking. Maybe he’d offer him a beer even, and Hugh could sit down then, and they’d toast each other and just be buddies.

Hugh has rehearsed his lines. He’s even done it before the mirror, after his shower.

He has fingered himself under the shower, lifting one leg up, but not to open himself for more fucking—as that won’t happen tonight. No, he’s done it just to take the edge off. He buried three fingers inside him to relieve the tension that has been building over the last days. Stroked himself inside, pushed into the heat of his own body. It took him a while to get there, but then—unbidden—the memory of Mads fucking him with his fat cock, taunting and humiliating him appeared before his inner eye, and he came, moaning, face pressed against the wet tiles.

Now he is showered, smelling of soap and shampoo and after shave and ready as he can be for Mads. 

„It’s crucial,“ Hugh reminds himself, „to show Mads that I’m not a pushover.“

He won’t mention the amount of stalking Mads must have done to find him. He knew about the rental, he knew about his lookalike, he probably knew about the hotel where he showers and changes perhaps. It flatters Hugh although it really shouldn’t. Mads went through considerable trouble to uncover his little secret but Hugh generously won’t remind him of that.

It’s important for their future collaboration. If they want the show to last more than one season, they have to be able to work together, without distractions. It’s good Hugh has his priorities straight, and Mads will eventually be grateful to him for that.

Also, that way perhaps Hugh and Mads can become real friends. They had kind of a promising friendship going when they met in 2004, or at least Hugh thought they had until one day a few of Mads’ Danish friends came to visit. Hugh was not invited to join them—when he passed the table where Mads sat with his buddies, he said „hi“ and Mads nodded a greeting but didn’t bother introducing him. 

Hugh sat down with his other colleagues. He couldn’t help notice, how _chummy_ Mads was with his friends, how _brotherly_. They played football together later, and again Hugh, despite being on a break, wasn’t invited. 

He didn’t bring that up, after the friends left but suddenly he noticed how differently Mads behaved towards him than with his old friends—he talked less with him and whenever Hugh opined about something, be it movies, books, politics, which was often, Mads would only blink and occasionally toast him with the beer he was holding. He often let Hugh talk, without really contributing to the conversation and at times Hugh’s sentences trailed off awkwardly. 

Hugh was frequently proud of his opinions and eloquence but he wasn’t always comfortable in Mads’ presence—as if his opinions were somehow irrelevant or flat. Did Mads think him dull? Mostly he thought he was a fairly interesting, witty bloke, but Mads never seemed to show any interest in his thoughts.

First Hugh thought Mads was embarrassed about his bad English (In 2004 it was actually pretty bad–but Mads’ part didn’t have many lines in the movie so it didn’t really matter) but later when Stellan, Till, Clive and Mads were sitting together, Mads spoke a lot about one of the directors he used to work with before. Turned out, his English was fine, if strongly accented. Hugh felt that sting of jealousy then—not in a strong possessive way, but he was honest enough to admit to himself he wanted to be Mads’ friend. His _real_ friend. He wanted Mads to like him, the way he liked his old friends from Denmark.

Mads was somehow always the center of attention. When he sat down somewhere, people would join him within the first five minutes, and after a short while the entire table would be crowded. He possessed the rare skill to be popular without ever seeming to attempt to be popular. 

He was never standoff-ish, never unfriendly towards Hugh but Hugh sensed there was always a lack of interest. To be so casually overlooked even though Hugh adjusted his attitude just for Mads and behaved a bit more laddish in his presence, stung a little.

Hugh acknowledges to himself he might merely be paranoid, and also slightly narcissistic. Then again, he _is_ an actor. 

Obviously a line of speed and coke isn’t the greatest way to cope with his mad heartbeat and the weird flat feeling in his stomach, but he snorts it anyway, then puts on some music to distract him. He absentmindedly checks his nostrils and teeth, rubs his palms on his denims. 

And yes, he is hard, but it’s only some sort of a Pavlovian reaction he tells himself—he’s just hard because on Fridays he usually drives to the park, to let himself get fucked by a handful of strangers. His cock is conditioned to be hard on Friday nights.

„Not now, boner,“ he jokes to himself, remembering one of the images he saw recently at some con but not even his boner seems to find his jokes particularly funny.

It’s still too early, just past eight but he decides to make his way to the hotel anyway. He can’t stand sitting around in his suite, looking at the clock. He can drive slow, he tells himself. He can stop at a coffee shop and get a bite to eat. He can maybe kill some time at the park, but although his hole twitches longingly at that thought, Hugh squashes it immediately. No. No fucking around today. He can’t possibly drive to Mads, smelling of sweat and cum and deliver his „We’re just friends“ line.

(Maybe later. Afterwards, to relieve the tension. To reward himself.)

He drives around a bit, aimless and indecisive. He does that usually to gather his thoughts, to think. Maybe driving allows him the illusion of being in control. And right now he needs to feel in control.

He really doesn’t like the state of feverish excitement he is in—the slight shaking of his hands, the stubborn erection that will just not abate, the nervous fluttering in his stomach. 

When he arrives at Mads’ hotel, it’s barely eight thirty, so he drives a few rounds around the block, then takes another short bump of coke. 

Maybe he should not go up at all—he could just text Mads from the car. He doesn’t need to tell him in person. Maybe that would be better after all.

That would actually leave him time to go to the park for half an hour. A quick blow job, nothing more. He’d be back home by ten, could put a movie on, read a little.

Tomorrow he’d meet Mads on the set, and they would say hello to each other, and they could continue to be colleagues and friends as if nothing ever happened.

Hugh doesn’t text Mads. 

At ten to nine he slams the door of his SUV shut behind him, zipping up his hoodie, pulling the baseball cap down. The hotel is nearly deserted. The only other person in the elevator is a woman, but either she doesn’t recognise him or she is too polite to speak to him, for which he is grateful. 

While listening to the easy listening jazz of the elevator he looks at his phone pretending to thumb through his notifications although there is no reception.

She gets out on the 12th floor. Mads’ suite is on the 20th.

The corridor is non-descript like all hotel corridors—lots of beige wall to wall carpet, the smell of chemical cleaners, a lot of mirrors.

He leans at the wall across Mads’ door for a few minutes to gather himself. It’s important he doesn’t fuck this up—he still wants Mads as a friend, even though he was such an asshole last week.

And yet, whenever Hugh thinks of that night, his whole body tenses. His stupid, sex addicted, weak body liked the rough handling … but it shouldn’t have.

Finally, after an eternity, he takes a deep breath and knocks.

First of all, he must have made a mistake. The guy opening the door is not Mads. 

Damn. Stupid Mads must have given him the wrong room number.

„Oh, hi, sorry, wrong door,“ he says, already turning around to leave, but the guy grabs his arms, shouting—not shouting at him, but into the room, in a language he doesn’t understand but strongly assumes to be Danish. (He heard Mads speak Danish several times—he thinks he can identify it meanwhile.)

Mads answers in Danish.

The guy unceremoniously pulls him inside, and slams the door behind him shut, speaks in Danish, grins down at him, then slaps his ass.

Hugh lets out a forced laugh, yanking himself free, adjusting his collar. He isn’t quite sure what is happening. Maybe it’s all just a bit of ribbing, boys being boys and all. He’s not particularly keen on that, but he knows how to handle himself—he went to Oxford and Winchester after all.

Boys being _drunk_ boys apparently—the suite is littered with full ashtrays and empty beer bottles. The TV is running—sports of course. A group of four men in tracksuits and sweatpants is standing around, smoking and commenting the game in Danish.

Mads is sitting at a round table further away, playing cards with three other guys. 

None of them look familiar to Hugh, and they all seem to speak Danish to each other.

The noise level is high—the guy sitting opposite is arguing about something with Mads, who is only grinning, a cigarette stuck to his lips.

This isn’t going as he expected, but Hugh soldiers on and saunters towards Mads.

„Hi Mads,“ he says, carefully balancing his tone between friendly and serious. Mads ignores him.

„Can I speak to you for a minute—in private?“ Hugh asks.

The men are looking at him. The guy from before—the one who pulled him into the room, has joined the group in front of the TV and all of them are staring unashamedly at him, leering in a way that makes him uncomfortable—as if he were a piece of meat. 

(It makes him painfully hard. His skin feels hot.)

Another huge guy is standing beside Mads, his left arm resting on the back of the chair, and his forearms are thick like fucking tree trunks. Hugh can’t help noticing the enormous bulge in his sweat pants. Just for a moment he imagines pulling that cock out of these atrocious pants, weighing it in his hand before taking it in his mouth and sucking it to hardness. 

He shakes his head to rid himself of that image.

„Mads, please,“ Hugh really tries to reason with him. Mads says something—not to him, but to someone standing behind him. Before Hugh can turn around, he is being lifted up and in the arms of a guy with a dark beard and a red, drunk face.

„Hey, stop that—„

His face hits the sofa cushions as he is literally tossed onto the couch like a rag doll.

He quickly pulls his knees under, pushes himself up on his hands, gritting his teeth. The men around him erupt in laughter.

„What the fuck, Mads,“ he says. He'd like it to come out angry, but his nerves fail him, and it comes out like a plea. He feels a spike of panic. Behind the good-natured laughter he can see the mean drunk looks these brutes give him. And they are all huge. Thick boned and heavy-muscled, the lot of them—he doesn’t stand a chance against them, and something inside him starts to thrum with excitement. 

He knows what this is.

It is one of his fantasies—being overwhelmed by a group of guys, being fucked by them, being used. He just always assumed that the reality of the fantasy would leave him unsatisfied. He always told himself he just likes the fantasy.

And yet. 

As he tries to stand up, another guy lifts him up and throws him down on the sofa again. Mads says something in Danish, and the guy kneels on top of him, and with deft movements pulls his pants down.

„No,“ Hugh says loudly, „no.“ He reaches out blindly to take this man’s arms off him, but another pair of arms comes up from behind and pins him down.

He is afraid–he is in panic. This is not a fantasy. This is real. 

Aghast he stares at his own crotch, his hard cock leaking in his brief–the unmistakeable damp stain.

Even though this is real, and unlike a fantasy uncontrollable, unpredictable, he is harder than he’s ever been, shaking with excitement. His skin feels too tight, and the heat inside him is slow and sweet and heavy.

„It means nothing,“ Hugh says, but he already knows he is lying. 

God, he wants this. He always wanted this.

Hugh asks himself if he is crazy. How fucked up must he be to actually want this. What the fuck is wrong with him?

He stares upwards into all these faces. He counts nine men. That’s not even a lot. He's been fucked by more, in the park—only this time, they see him. They know who he is. 

Oh God, but being seen just makes him dizzy with lust, lightheaded with terror and arousal.

„Okay,“ he says, licking his lips, staring up at the surrounding men.

Finally Mads lays down his cards and stands up, walks leisurely to the sofa and looks at Hugh.

Hugh can’t tell if Mads really is that bored or if he is acting. It’s always hard to tell with Mads. He's a good actor.

„Okay, _Mads_ ,“ Hugh hears himself emphasising his name, „if that is what you want, then we can do this. I’ll ... let you.“

Mads takes a big sip from his beer and speaks to one of his friends, someone apparently called Tim, just so as if Hugh isn’t here. 

Tim picks Hugh up, rips his shirt off him, in a fluid, fast movement, then throws him back onto that sofa. When Hugh tries to move, Tim grabs his arms and twists them onto his back.

„What the fuck,“ Hugh says.

Mads purses his lips, grabs a handful of Hugh’s curls and pulls his head back.

„A whore must not ever open his mouth, except to suck cock,“ he tells Hugh.

„Whoa, Mads,“ Hugh tries to laugh, to diffuse the situation here, but Mads just twists his hand into his curls and Hugh winces.

„Understood?“

With one hand he pulls down his pants and slaps Hugh’s face with a very hard, very thick cock.

Hugh hates how his hole clenches, hates how he arches up, how his lips part at the sight and smell of Mads’ cock.

„Yes,“ he breathes, and knows he is admitting defeat. By saying _yes_ he is complicit. 

It feels unexpectedly powerful. He feels something akin to the relief a man feels after signing a difficult contract. All the negotiations and politics are forgotten once the paper has been signed. He has signed away his autonomy but now he feels free.

Mads pushes him back onto the sofa.

„Look at that cockslut,“ Mads says in English and the shame that floods Hugh at hearing these words said by Mads, makes his cock even harder, his hole twitching. 

His friends say something in Danish and laugh. Tim leans forward, dips his fingers into the slippery, warm pre-cum from the leaking tip and smears it onto Hugh’s red lips.

„Now you’re a pretty slut,“ he says, beaming down at Hugh.

Hugh realises how much he hates Tim. He realises how much he hates loving this. To revel in abuse and humiliation, in degradation and being used. (It is so liberating to stop being a person, so liberating to just be a thing to be used.)

Someone pulls him up by his hair, then a warm, spongy cockhead nudges his lips. Obediently he parts them, takes the tip reverently in. Mads is talking to the man, calling him Nils. Nils is red-haired, with a thick thatch of ginger pubic hair, slightly pot-bellied, but taller than Mads. He doesn’t even look at Hugh, just pushes his cock in, while drinking his beer and talking with Mads.

Hugh would have never found Nils attractive, like all the other guys in this room. He also doubts he’d like any of the guys who fuck him in the park, but that too, mysteriously belongs to the thrill. Hugh would have never picked them up—and yet, being fucked in the mouth by these men is somehow far more arousing than sucking one of those pretty, manicured boys Hugh knew at Oxford, off.

The guys here are too brawny, too laddish, playing the role of straight dudes, talk loudly, laugh drunkenly, slap each other on their shoulders, toss their beers back. To Hugh they’re equally disgusting, arousing and slightly scary. They could very easily hurt him.

A finger enters him and begins to fuck him with it. It feels so good, Hugh immediately moans loudly around the cock he is sucking. He raises his arse begging for more, for deeper. It’s good and it’s not enough. One finger is by far not enough any longer. He hates-loves this teasing, craves the searing, sharp pain of a fat cock fucking into him and the following hot sensation of lust and pleasure. 

Nils stops talking to Mads, grins down on Hugh.

„Oh yes,“ he says, „good.“

He pushes in deeper and Hugh opens his throat, lets Nils’ cock slide in, carefully watching Nils’ reaction. 

Nils lets out a string of curses in Danish, then switches back into English.

„I have something for you,“ he wheezes, red-cheeked. Hugh can guess what it is, the way his cock is throbbing against his tongue, twitching, eager to release and pulls a little back, just so Nils’ cum doesn’t go directly down his throat—he wants to taste it after all. Like all good cocksluts he loves the taste of cum.

Nils has other ideas, pulls out, leaving Hugh bereft, then begins to cum in thick ropes across his pretty face. 

That too is good, and Hugh just opens his mouth wide, hoping to catch a few drops. 

Nils’ friends highfive him, cheering. They’re congratulating him, as if it wasn’t Hugh who has done the actual work. 

Mads only smirks, opens another beer.

The guy fingering him, stops, and Hugh whines, wriggles his ass. 

„Do it yourself,“ Mads says, „like in the park. Prepare yourself.“

It’s different in the park, Hugh wants to say, he doesn’t have to look at anyone, and the people watching him don’t see his face. On the other hand, he just sucked one of Mads’ obnoxious sports buddies off, is kneeling naked on a hotel couch, his ass exposed to everyone in the room, his cock hard and dripping. What does it matter now?

Mads manhandles him into a sitting position. Not entirely satisfied, he nudges him deeper, into an almost lying position, then pushes his legs up, spreading them. Finally he lets out a satisfied grunt. He fishes his phone out of his pocket. 

„Get on with it,“ Mads says.

Hugh reaches down and enters two fingers into his hole, lets them sink in knuckle deep. Tim presses a bottle of lube into his other hand, and Hugh pours a generous amount over his fingers and his hole. It’s only about the stretch so he tries going not too deep, tries to avoid his prostate.

All the men in the room stare down at him now, observe how he fucks himself.

Oh god, this is fucked up, this will destroy him. What the fuck is he thinking, letting Mads film him? And yet, he looks directly into the lens, lets his mouth fall open, licks cum from his lips, while fingering himself. It is not that he’s not ashamed. It’s that shame that makes it so good, so exciting. It makes him dizzy with sick lust, that voice in his mind asking „What are you doing?“ „Don’t you have any shame?“ „Don’t you have an ounce of self-respect, whoring yourself out to random strangers?“

By accident he goes too deep, fingertips stroking lightly the nub inside him, and he arches up, gasping. A string of precum drops onto his belly.

Shit.

Too soon.

Someone bends down, and pinches his nipples, laughing when Hugh moans loudly.

„A bitch in heat,“ Mads says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

„He likes his tits played with,“ Nils comments drily.

„Can you do four?“ a voice asks from behind.

„Why don’t you fist the slut, Tommy?“ Mads asks the speaker.

The guy called Tommy laughs, moves into Hugh’s view. His English is a lot better than the English of the other men. 

„I might! I bet he can take it easily.“

Hugh pulls out, pours more lube, then adds the fourth finger. The stretch used to be uncomfortable in a good way, but these days are long over. Now all he feels is hunger, his hole aching for cock. 

„Looks as if he can fist himself,“ Tommy observes.

„Do you do that sometimes?“ Mads asks him, still filming him, the bastard, „fist yourself?“

When Hugh doesn’t respond immediately, Mads slaps him.

„Thought I wasn’t supposed to speak except when I’m sucking cock,“ Hugh grits out.

Mads laughs, almost fondly. He still has the phone trained onto Hugh’s cum-stained face.

„Cheeky,“ he says.

„If I don’t get a cock soon I’ll have to fist myself,“ Hugh says defiantly, looking straight into the camera. „I definitely need something thicker than your tiny pricks.“

The men who understand English well enough, laugh out loud. Mads laughs too, but when he looks at Hugh, his eyes have a dangerous glint in them. Hugh licks his lips.

„Oooh,“ Nils says who is sitting at a table now, „someone’s getting a bit naughty.“

A sandy-haired man next to Tommy, not as tall as Nils or Tim but stocky and muscular, moves onto the couch, next to Hugh, pulling out a thick cock.

„You call that a tiny prick, you fucking slut?“ 

Hugh has to admit, that the man’s cock is impressive. Before he can say anything, the man shoves it into Hugh’s opened mouth. It’s only half-hard at first, but so thick, Hugh’s jaw immediately hurts. When he starts suckling the tip and licking the underside, the shaft thickens even more, and Hugh lets out a surprised squeak. Thank God, it’ not overly long, but the sheer thickness makes it hard for him to breathe.

With a grunt, the man pushes Hugh over, so he’s on his hands and knees again, then unceremoniously pushes his cock into Hugh hole.

When Hugh screams, the whole rooms erupts into laughter.

„Not so cheeky anymore,“ Mads says, grinning. 

Hugh can feel tears leaking out of his eyes—he is actually crying. 

Mads takes care to film his tears, getting off on his pain.

„I thought you can take more,“ he says.

Hugh says nothing—every thrust with this thick cock, literally destroys him, and his ability to form words. All he can do is to brace himself, try to relax around that girth, wait it out. 

It’s hard to relax, what with this guy moving him around, delivering his hard, punishing thrusts, almost shoving him from the couch but slowly heat ignites in his belly, in his arse. It begins to feel good, and the pain fades away, thrust by thrust. Hugh begins to push back, angles his hips. 

Oh fuck, yes, this is it, he thinks, biting his lips.

Now he wants more, but it turns out, that, because the guy’s cock is so short, the glide of his shaft over his prostate is not long enough to bring him to orgasm—it’s like a press and then it’s gone again, but Hugh craves the extended caress a long cock would give him. He whines, pushing back stronger, spreading his legs further. 

„Yeah, show this slut what a good fucking is, Anders,“ Nils grunts.

Although Anders’ speeds up, and the pace of his fucking is brutal and his girth nearly tears Hugh apart it’s not enough—it’s maddening. No matter how much Hugh tries to take in more, no matter how much he wriggles his ass, he won’t be able to come. Anders’ rhythm, on the other hand, becomes erratic. He thrusts harder and these last brutal thrusts are almost enough to pull Hugh over the edge as well.

„Oh fuck, oh yes,“ Hugh babbles, feeling himself getting closer. 

With a loud grunt, Anders empties himself.

„Please,“ Hugh begs weakly, still moving, „please don’t pull out.“

Hot cum seeps out of his hole, trickling down his legs. He feels Anders' cock immediately softening inside him, then he pulls it out so quickly, Hugh loses his balance and falls with his face onto the couch.

He needs a cock inside him, he needs it so badly it hurts. Anders has driven him to the edge, and if he can’t come now, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. 

„Please,“ he begs again, hoping, someone, anyone will have mercy on him.

He arches his back, raises his arse again.

„Desperate for cock, hm?“ Tommy gives him a faux sympathetic look.

Hugh’s entire body is shaking with want. 

„Come on, fuck me already,“ he tries to coax Tommy, „I’m still tight and wet for you.“

Tommy laughs, adjusting himself, throws a glance towards Mads who has stopped filming at some point. Mads nods and only then Tommy steps closer to Hugh, puts large, calloused hands onto his back. Turns out Tommy is too lanky, so after some attempts to fold himself onto the couch, he makes an impatient noise, and instead steps behind it. He grabs Hugh’s ass and legs and pulls them up over the back of the couch. Hugh’s ass rests on the back of the couch, now at a perfect height for Tommy, but his legs don’t reach the ground from his position so Tommy holds them spread apart, while Hugh scrambles for a hold on the couch seats.

Finally Tommy lines himself up, and fucks into Hugh, who lets out a long, keening moan.

Tommy’s cock is thin but long, and he immediately fucks into Hugh’s prostate. Hugh thanks him with loud screams.

„Oh fuck,“ he manages to say.

Tommy glides into Hugh’s hole stretched by Anders’ cock.

„Not tight enough,“ he whines, „I don’t think I can come like that.“

Immediately the boys make jokes about Hugh’s sloppy cunt. Tommy laughs breathlessly with them, but when the fucking goes on and on, without him getting any closer, no matter how hard Hugh clenches around him, Tommy gets increasingly angry.

„Come on, clench, you sow,“ he hisses, slapping Hugh in the face.

Hugh moans.

Finally Mads steps closer. He pulls his sweatpants down, and pulls a hard, thick cock out, fisting himself. Hugh’s mouth waters, he wants to suck and lick that thing.

His desire must have shown on his face, because Mads grins down at him, slapping him lightly with his cock on his cheeks. Hugh nuzzles the head, licks the pre-cum off the glans. Mads’ face is unreadable. He holds his cock, then shoves it deep into Hugh’s mouth, pressing into his throat, ignoring his thrashing.

„How about now, Tommy?“ he asks calmly.

„He got a bit tighter,“ Tommy says. „This is awesome!“

Hugh struggles with Mads’ cock in his mouth, trying to let it slide down his throat.

Tommy’s rhythm picks up, mercilessly stimulating his prostate. Copious amounts of precum drip out of Hugh’s twitching cock.

Again, Hugh begins to pull back, when he can feel Mads’ cock throb heavy and blunt against the back of his tongue. He wants to taste the cum, not just swallow it. Or even better, be covered in it, like the fucked up slut he is.

„Can you sit down?“ Mads asks Tommy. „I want him to sit on your cock, can you do that?“

Again, he is manhandled into a different position. Tommy moves to the front of the couch, lies down, then impales Hugh onto his long cock. Hugh sighs contentedly as he sinks down on it. He feels Mads behind him, sees his right knee propped up on the sofa. Mads inserts a finger beside Tommy’s cock testing the stretch.

„You’re quite loose,“ he mumbles.

„Well, I just took a cock the size of a fucking baseball bat,“ Hugh hisses.

Mads doesn’t reply, only snorts, then Hugh feels Mads’ cockhead nudge his hole.

„No,“ he says weakly, „no I can’t take two, please.“

„You’ll love it, you cockslut,“ Mads says, but continues to only finger him. Tommy begins to thrust again, and Hugh whines, surprised by the hot fullness, the sensation travelling up his spine. It’s good—it’s bordering on painful, but the slide feels so fucking good, the pressure on his sweet spot and his cock much stronger now. Too soon he wants—needs more. 

Resigned he lays down onto Tommy, who grips his hips and continues thrusting.

„Alright,“ he says, his voice shaky, „do it.“

„Do what?“ Mads asks silkily.

„Fuck me, I need two cocks inside me.“

Mads’ cock is at his hole again, pressing in. Hugh tenses, waiting for the pain, but when it comes it’s less strong than he expected it. Instead the pressure on his prostate becomes nearly unbearable in its intensity. He can’t even say if he’s already coming, or if he’s close or what is happening to him—Mads begins to move immediately, setting up a faster, deeper pace than Tommy’s. 

Oh god, Mads’ cock feels so good, he can feel every fucking vein of this thick, hot rod. 

This is not his first time being fucked by two cocks. He has had two cocks inside him already of course, several times, the first time when he was seventeen, but somehow he has never felt so full before. It's different tonight—the pain-pleasure is unbelievable. Maybe it’s because Mads’ cock is so big, maybe it’s because of the situation itself. Or maybe it is the perfect rhythm, the perfection of Mads’ thrusts, his aim. 

Someone is screaming in a pathetic, high voice, and it takes Hugh long to register it’s his own voice.

„Bet his cunt can take more than two cocks,“ one of the guys quips. 

Whatever Hugh wants to retort, is instantly forgotten the moment Mads thrusts faster, and upwards, causing Hugh to wail like a banshee.

„Someone shut the bitch up,“ Tommy grunts, and soon enough, another cock is pushed into Hugh’s mouth and he obediently sucks and licks. The boys might be rude assholes, but they are very well coordinated—first the cock in Hugh’s mouth comes, and Hugh moans while swallowing down the delicious cock cream, licking the shaft clean, his mind nearly gone in his frenzy. Then Tommy stiffens, and thrusts in so deep, it hurts–in a good, too delicious way, and then Hugh can feel him twitch and throb.

„Gonna come in your wet pussy,“ Tommy says, then Hugh can feel his hole being flooded with hot cum. 

Tommy pulls out, while Mads slows down a bit. Tommy grabs Hugh’s curls and pushes his glistening cock into Hugh’s mouth.

„Clean me up, whore,“ he mumbles.

Hugh would have refused, but with Mads cock fucking into him, his brain is gone, and he opens his lips and licks him clean, like a kitten.

Tommy tucks himself away.

Mads somehow unsatisfied with the position, grabs Hugh’s curls too, just the way Tommy did before and throws him brutally to the ground. 

Hugh lands on his knees, cheek pressed on the carpeted floor. As he tries to push himself up, he can feel Mads kneeling down behind him, then shoving his cock back into his hole. Hugh moans.

„You like your pussy being filled,“ Mads says.

„Just fuck me, you asshole,“ Hugh gasps between Mads’ punishing thrusts. Each of his thrusts pushes Hugh a bit further over the carpet, away from mads. Impatiently Mads finally puts his foot onto Hugh’s face, pressing him down.

A round of rauceous laughter ensues. Of course the guys like that. Hugh can’t say anything, can’t protest, but he can see himself in a floorlength wardrobe mirror. It’s close enough to see Hugh's cum-covered face, his reddened knees, his leaking, hard cock, Mads’ sneaker on his cheek, which will surely leave an imprint on his face, his ass up in the air, Mads’ muscled thighs, the heavy, large body, the arms holding his hips up, Mads’ silvery hair is falling into his face. He can even see Mads’ cock moving in and out of his hole, shining wet with cum and lube.

Mads shifts, and suddenly the entire length of his cock is dragging over Hugh’s prostate, the tip pressing into it with every thrust and it’s too much—with a scream Hugh comes, fucking himself onto Mads’ cock, over and over again, angling himself so the pleasure whites out his mind. 

Hugh’s orgasm goes on forever and forever. He shudders and it’s as if every thrust makes him come again, until he finally collapses, exhausted, and only then Mads’ speeds up, fucks into him and with a curse stiffens. Hugh moans and lifts his arse up, feeling Mads’ cum filling him up. Mads pulls out and a final thick rope of cum sprays over Hugh’s back.

With a grunt, Mads pushes himself up and sits on the couch. Hugh turns around, still delirious from the fucking and his orgasm and, unprompted, settles between Mads’ legs and licks him clean too, chasing the taste of cum.

Someone hands Mads a beer, which he gulps down thirstily.

When Hugh takes Mads’ cock into his mouth again, Mads twitches in an irritated way and pushes Hugh roughly away with his foot, causing him to topple over.

For a moment Hugh’s poor gaping red hole is visible to everyone. 

„That hole can take a donkey cock,“ Nils comments.

„Doesn’t your brother have a farm?“ Tim inquires and the men laugh.

Hugh crawls back to the couch but doesn’t try to get up—he feels strangely content here, at Mads’ feet, like a dog, lets the voices and laughter of the men wash over him, as sleep claims him.

When he wakes up, he’s alone. The room is a fucking mess, even messier than before, the smell of stale booze and cigarettes heavy in the air. The TV is still running. Hugh doesn’t need to search the suite to know Mads and his entourage have left. 

He is still naked, his neck hurts like hell, he has cramps in his calves and his ass is on fire. When he experimentally moves his legs, slow and careful, warm cum seeps out of him—his hole so stretched he can’t even hold it in, when he tries. 

There is a quiet feeling of peace and contentment in him. That shrill noise in his head, the one he hadn’t even known was there, a constant high whirring noise, is gone. (He went through his days with gritted teeth and forced smiles, his skin raw and hurting under that mask. Now there is only slow and lazy and sated, golden warmth running through him.)

He stretches, grinning when he feels another trickle of cum seeping out. Fuck, he’s filthy and it feels fucking great. He looks at his own reflection again in the mirror again. Even from the distance he can see how utterly fucked out and debauched he looks, covered in bruises and cum, like a proper whore.

Outside the sun is coming up. Through the floor-length window in the bedroom he can see a red-gold line of light in the horizon. 

It’s a new day.


	3. The Hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? Hugh can't get enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added tags. Please read them before you read the fic. Yes, you too, Mads. I've added a hint about watersports, so in comments you can tell me if you want more of that or not. 
> 
> The title of this chapter is inspired by The Path, not because of the content but because episode five was titled The Hole as well, and I couldn't stop snort-giggling about this.
> 
> By now you know the drill. There will be porn. There will be asshole Mads and there will be insatiable slut Hugh. They've now become my OTP. I am probably incapable of writing nice people. 
> 
> Just one thing, before the party starts: I'd like to thank a few certain individuals on Twitter who have tweeted about my fic. (Raise your hands and say hi, you know who you are!) 
> 
> This chapter is specially for you because it would have never been written without your awesome tweets. I really did not think anyone would read my fucked up, deranged filth but ... then I stumbled over your tweets and ... wow. I kind of cried with happiness. 
> 
> So this is for you my dearest Twitter darlings. I love you and I hope you like this.

Hugh stays clear of the park for two weeks. He is too panicked to visit any parks, restrooms or clubs. He stays clear of the sex parties he’s being invited to, even the most discrete and secretive ones. He is practically celibate, if one doesn’t count fingering himself sprawled naked on the couch in his study while watching porn as sexual activity. 

The utter recklessness of his actions haunts him. He has let himself be fucked by Mads’ shitty, drunk dude-bro friends, has himself allowed to be called whore and cum-slut and whatnot and worst of all … he has enjoyed himself. 

He has done all the things he had sworn to never ever do in that one night. He has committed every stupid mistake someone in his position can commit. He has broken every rule he has sworn to obey—rules he wrote himself.

Of course he has been forced to. He would not have done any of it otherwise. It’s all Mads’ fault.

(He has known himself, he thinks, but now he doesn’t.)

When he stares at the reflection in the mirror a stranger stares back at him, someone who doesn’t care about his life or about what he has got to lose. It could be his imagination but Hugh thinks he can suddenly see the traces of this stranger lingering in his expressions. There is a lustful glint in his eyes. The lashes seem heavier and thicker, there is a suppressed moan whenever he swallows, beneath the clicking of the throat, a vulgarity in the laughter lines around his mouth. 

The flesh of his lips feels soft, yearning. He licks them too often, lost in thought, lost in memories. He sometimes comes to himself, biting his lower lip, worrying it between his teeth, his eyes closed. A few days ago he startled himself when he realised he had been stroking his half-open lips, enjoying the feeling of slightly calloused fingerpads on his cupidbow. 

He is sabotaging himself.

He has always had „a thing for humiliation“ as he calls it, a penchant for being debased, but believed he was in control of it. He was convinced the urge was a temporary kink, sometimes surfacing when life seemed dull. He liked to see it as some sort of mechanism righting an upset balance in his mind, bestowing peace, soothing him. 

For most of his life he felt he was controlling his desires. Only lately he had begun to seek out restrooms more often than before. In the beginning he didn’t even notice. It snuck up on him. He went from offering his hole to random strangers only every three or four months to once a month, and finally to once a week. 

The night with Mads and his asshole friends has confronted him with a fact he should have realised a long time ago: he has lost control. He might have never had it. The little penchant, his kink has become an overwhelming hunger.

There can be no lying about this to himself.

He stays home, calls the nanny to bring him groceries because he doesn’t leave the house even to go shopping. She brings him food, drinks, a few other items he has asked for. Most of the paparazzi on the street outside their house are here for Claire anyway, so she doesn’t understands Hugh’s hesitation to leave the house but is too polite to say so.

Trying to get into a script, he explains to her, feeling he has to justify himself but she only nods, and after a short while walks up to the kid’s room.

He knows it’s absurd but he feels anyone can see the finger-shaped bruises all over his body through his sweater, his still slightly sore asshole underneath his G-star denims, smell the semen on him, despite him taking multiple showers with fruit-scented shower lotions. 

(Everyone can see what he has done. Everyone can see what he is.)

Strangely, but maybe not so strangely, at the set nothing seems out of the order. Mads tells jokes, laughs a lot, goofs around with the crew, slaps Hugh’s shoulder in greeting, smiles at him. He has begun to ask him occasionally for advice on how to pronounce a certain word. Before that night such treatment from Mads would have warmed his insides and made him smile but now he has to fake that smile. With a certain cynical detachment he notes that ever since he fakes it, it looks more _real_.

One of the make-up girls tells him, „I love working with you—I can see how much you love working together and that’s pretty inspiring.“

Hugh smiles at her through the mirror.

Nothing is out of the order.

One day though they film a scene in which Hannibal approaches Will while talking to him, and Bryan wants Will to be guarded and tense. The script details a dialogue fraught with double-meanings and some philosophical quips between Hannibal and Will and nothing more, but Mads implementation of this scene becomes intensely physical fast. Every time they go through this scene, with Mads/Hannibal approaching him, with his light smirk on his lips, his suddenly dark eyes, Hugh has to keep himself from squirming. The sensation of Mads being so close, of him slipping in and out of his personal space over a prolonged period of time makes him antsy. During a take in the late afternoon, Mads’ switches a line and instead of backing away again like before, steps even closer to Hugh, his eyes hooded. 

„Stop that,“ Hugh snaps at him, his back pressed against a wooden ladder, and immediately clamps his mouth shut.

Hannibal vanishes into thin air, like smoke, and leaves only Mads who blinks at him, bemused. For a moment nobody speaks.

„What the ... er, Hugh? Are you ok?“ the director says finally. In the back Hugh can see some crew members craning their necks.

Mads steps back, raises his hands in some sort of apologetic gesture but looks at the director as if for guidance.

„Sorry? Did I do a wrong thing?“ he asks. 

Mads’ accent is worse when he’s on set, Hugh thinks waspishly. When he orders him to shut up and suck cock, his accent is far less noticeable.

Everyone is looking at Hugh now. He’s spooked them, no wonder, he’s usually overly polite. Sometimes impatient perhaps, but never mean. He himself doesn’t quite understand what just happened.

„Sorry,“ Hugh says, „that was uncalled for, I was a little distracted, in er, a different headspace. Let’s do this one more time?“

„Guess, Will would be a bit of a bitch, huh?“ Mads jokes.

Hugh thins his lips.

He apologises again, turned to the present crew members. He knows most of them have been on their feet since 6 am, and he knows after they’re done and he’s on his way to his hotel, they have to get the set ready for tomorrow. They don’t need his antics.

He doesn’t apologise to Mads who pretends not to notice, but when they get ready for the next take, there is a slight smirk around Mads’ mouth corners.

For some reason it’s enough to make Hugh’s blood boil but he smirks defiantly back, thinking „You fucking jerk.“

As if Mads can read his thoughts he turns away from the camera to give Hugh a wink.

 

„8pm in my hotel.“

„Fuck you,“ Hugh types into his phone, then corrects the text to, „Fuck off.“

He does not send it, just stares at it and the blinking cursor at the end. After a while he closes the app, saves the text in his drafts.

He decides to ignore Mads. He shouldn’t encourage him, and responding would definitely encourage him.

The next thing Mads sends is an image—Hugh naked, face and chest flushed and sweaty, blue eyes glazed. The pic itself wouldn’t be too bad, Hugh thinks in a detached way. He looks unrecognisable in it. It must be the fat cock in his mouth. There are drops of cum on his brows, his cheeks, his hair. More cum is dripping from the corner of his mouth. The worst however is the expression on his face—that almost serene smile, the bliss in his eyes. He is so focussed on worshipping that cock, his eyes are slightly crossed. 

Hugh would love to hate Mads but in this moment he very much just hates himself.

His whole body fucking remembers. He can feel rough hands manhandling and pushing him down, grabbing his ankles, spreading his legs, can feel fingers carding through his hair. His body remembers the exhilarating feeling of having absolutely no control. His body doesn’t understand Hugh’s repulsion and anger. It only wants and wants and wants.

He shifts in his seat.

„What do you want?“ he types, then deletes.

„Why are you doing this?“ He deletes that too.

„You fucking cunt,“ he types into his phone. 

His thumb hovers over the ‚Send‘ button.

His fingers are shaking, with an unnamed emotion. He desperately wants it to be anger but it’s something else.

Of course it’s something else—Hugh knows and berates himself. 

He lies back, phone in his hand, focussing on his breath. He tries to continue watching the show he put on—an American remake of one of these bleak Scandinavian crime shows—but his thoughts wander back to his phone.

The next image Mads sends is a chaotic blur of skin. It takes a while to load, and Hugh first stares at a swirl of pink, red, white.

He has to turn the display around several times to recognise part of his buttocks, his cleft, his hole being stretched by two cocks, one balls deep buried in him, the other one, fat, veiny, shiny with lube pulling out. 

It’s not an erotic or even appealing picture. It’s ugly, the dripping lube, the white, slightly yellowish blobs, his skin of his thighs looks grey in this light, bleached of colour. Hugh swallows with discomfort. This image is an insult. This is how I see you, Mads tells him.

This is all you are.

(He is hard, oh god.)

To say he hates Mads is as if he’d say fire is only mildly warm.

Five minutes later he looks at the image again. He knows that the darker cock belongs to Mads. He’s already forgotten the name of the other guy who fucked him, but his hole remembers and clenches. The slight beginnings of lust, a heavy sweetness begins to simmer in his lower belly, travel into his balls and his perineum.

Of course it’s not Mads’ cock that makes Hugh cum so hard. It’s the fucked up way Mads treats him. It’s the taunts and humiliation, the way Mads uses him. The way he says the things about Hugh he knows to be so true. The way he fucks all the lies Hugh has inside him, out.

And then, a few days later, they film a scene together, and Mads disappears without a trace, leaving Hannibal Lecter, and Lecter.

Lecter is trouble. Lecter looks at him with this fervent devotion, this wonder. When Hugh read the script, he knew what was supposed to happen but somehow he is taken by surprise by the intensity of Mads’ performance. Hugh knows what's real and what isn’t yet the suddenness with which Mads can morph into Lecter leaves his head spinning. Sometimes he finds himself stuttering, forgetting his lines. Sitting opposite of Lecter he has to keep himself from searching the room for Mads. 

it is hard to remember that the way Hannibal looks at him is not real. Especially when he is exhausted, he finds himself disoriented, confused.

Hugh knows he is not a good actor. Not like Mads. There is a layer of himself he just can’t seem to get rid of. It sticks, no matter how hard he tries to peel it off. At times he feels he is being suffocated under this loathsome layer of _identity_ but Mads, he can just dissolve and stop _being_. Suddenly he’s gone and only his character remains.

A lot of people tell Hugh how he has grown as an actor over the years, but they’re merely being kind. He can sense their lies. He is a nice man. People tend to like him. No one wants to hurt him.

(The truth is that he’s an impostor, gifted with beautiful features which have forever defined him and his life. Privately, in his morose moments, he thinks in more than one way his good looks might have damaged him.)

But Mads—when people talk about Mads they become reverent. They gush about his Le Chiffre in Casino Royale, Lucas in The Hunt, about One-Eye in Valhalla Rising. He has never told anyone, but he has read all reviews about Mads’ various roles, has watched his movies. (Hugh knows of course that Mads has not watched all of Hugh’s oeuvre not that it matters to him.)

No one expresses that admiration for his Lucas Brandon, for his Grigg, or Prince Char.

Even Mads himself seems to be a performance of some sort. Is the real Mads the one who jokes with the crew on set, loves to play poker and talks for hours on the phone with his family? Or is the real Mads the man who throws him to the ground and fucks him like a whore, looks at him with that disdainful little smirk, talks to his friends while thrusting into his sweet spot over and over until he whines and drools and claws at the rug? Who forces his cock into his mouth and cums all over his face, then debases him even more by showing him off to his friends? 

Who is the real Mads? 

The worst thing is he’s been hard for the last ten minutes. His body doesn’t care for his contempt for Mads or the contempt Mads feels for him. His body begs for Mads’ cock like a crack addict for another hit. 

He texts back at half past eight.

„10pm.“

He stares at the text for a moment, slides his thumb over the smooth surface of the phone, then finally pushes the „Send“ button. Suddenly the air in the room is too thin, and he feels the usual anxiety of „What the fuck have you gotten yourself into“ again. And yet, there is also the heat gathering lazily in his body, crawling through his veins, the hunger.

He lets his head fall to the side and stares at his own reflection in the patio glass door, blinking slowly. A beautiful boy. Not a boy any longer, but a man. With a determined movement he pulls himself up and walks into his bathroom.

He opens the cabinet behind the floor-length mirror, carefully pushes a few white Muji boxes aside and reaches for a square container with a lock on it.

The key is a few shelves up higher, hidden so that his son can’t find it accidentally. (The shelf is so high that he’d have to turn at least sixteen or so to be able to find it.) He unlocks the box, then puts the key back. 

He looks at the items in the box, shower heads in various shapes and sizes, all of them made from stainless steel. One of them is coated in gold and looks very much like a cock-shaped dildo except it has five holes in the tip to diffuse the water flow.

He doesn’t always clean himself that thoroughly—for nights spent in the park, he often just soaps his finger, inserts it in his hole, fucks himself a bit until his cock is hard, flushes, then re-moisturises with olive oil just so that the skin doesn’t get too dry.

To clean himself before prolonged fucking sessions however he uses a shower irrigator which can be screwed onto the hose after he removes the shower head. The size he picks depends heavily on his mood and the type of night he wants. Tonight he feels he wants to be already open and ready, so he takes the gold, cock-shaped one. He undresses, climbs into the bath tub, unscrews the shower head and attaches the irrigator nozzle. He uncaps a bottle with aloe vera gel and lubes the nozzle with it. Adding more gel onto his fingers he sticks two fingers into his hole, and rocks back onto them. It’s shameful how fast he gets hard, how good this feels. 

With the other hand he turns up the water, so the nozzle gets warmed.

(His hole already twitches in happy anticipation and he’s sure if he’d have a pussy, he’d be soaking wet already.)

It doesn’t take long until he can insert the nozzle. In his impatience he pushes the tip in too fast, and he has to force himself to go slower. 

He bought it in a really fancy online sex shop a year ago and loves it so much, he sometimes only lets hot water run over that rod, until the metal is warm, then lubes it up before slowly sliding it into his hole and fucks himself without even turning the water on until the very moment he cums—not the same thing like a hot, veiny fat cock but it does the job, spraying his insides with warm water.

Tonight though he intends to get fucked later so he just teases himself with it today, feeling the warm water filling him up. He lets out a shaky exhale.

With a sigh he squats down. 

Braced with one arm against the mirrored bathroom wall, he sinks onto his knees, the end of the rod sticking out of his ass. When he can feel the water filling his lower belly, he reaches up to turn off the water. He switches on the rain shower above his head and nearly blisses out when the warm water drops hit his over sensitised skin. Somewhere there is an electronic panel, where a few button pushes result in a rhythmic massaging change of pressure in the waterdrops. Leaning on his elbows, arse pushing up he imagines he looks like some sort of animal with a robotic tail. He increases the water pressure so the waterdrops feel like tiny needle pricks on his reddening skin. Turning around he arches, moaning softly when the water pinches his nipples. With the fullness sloshing in his lower belly and the feeling of the rod sliding in and out of his hole he is close to cumming but although it takes all his willpower to not fuck himself to orgasm, he manages to stop. 

Instead he slowly pulls out the rod, not able to suppress a loud moan. He clenches his hole at first, to keep the water in, and it fills so good—the warmth, the pressure—but then with a sigh, he opens and lets go. Hugh can feel the water and waste squirt from his hole, down the drain. This is one of his favourite moments: when he feels clean and light and empty. 

As he gets up and experimentally moves his torso to the right, then to the left, he feels a last thin trickle running down the inside of his thighs but then it’s done. He sprays the rod with antibacterial cleaner and the lemony, if unpleasantly sharp scent tickles him in the nostrils. He soaps himself with the perfumed tuscan shower gel Claire keeps buying (or more likely, she’s sent by the company). It contains coarse sea salt which somehow renders his skin incredibly soft and smooth. He always delights in running the palms of his hands over the bits of silky skin on his shoulder, his arms, his ass cheeks. 

It takes a lot more to open his hole up speak alone of leaving it „gaping“ than a quick cleanse with an irrigator, but he always likes to imagine his hole slightly pouting after that treatment, like lips puckered and flushed, ready for cock.

Dressed in nothing but a grey cashmere hoodie and dark sweatpants, both looking unremarkable enough he makes his way to his car. The paparazzi are lying in wait for his wife, at the moment not in the slightest interested in the „hot husband“ but he still needs to be careful.

(There have been rumours about her and her co-star, and both of their agents and PR teams have advised them to wait before issuing comments to fully take advantage of being in the news cycle. The season finale of her show is to air in a few weeks and it’s prudent to ramp up expectation and fuel rumours.)

As usual he still changes cars at a spot he agrees upon with his driver. The driver used to sometimes mysterious demands of his celebrity clients, takes the car keys without comment and gives him his.

„I’ll call you in a few hours,“ Hugh advises him.

With a smirk the driver tips his index finger against his forehead as a greeting, then walks to Hugh’s car, starts it and drives away.

Hugh makes his way to the rental Audi. 

Before going up to Mads’ room he snorts a small bump of coke off his car keys, pats his pockets for the lube, (he took it in case these dick heads don’t have the right one). He pulls his baseball cap down, dons those awful nineties Prada shades, zips up his hoodie. A last glance in the mirror to check if there is any visible residue. For a moment he taps an indecisive rhythm on the frame of the car door, then slams it shut and makes his way to the elevator.

This time he can hear their drunken voices as soon as he steps out of the elevator. 

„Fucking jerks,“ he thinks, gritting his teeth.

One of them apparently tells a joke because raucous laughter surges up. Hugh snorts when he hears the sound of guys high-fiving each other. 

As soon as he knocks, the door opens and the volume of the voices rises to a deafening level.

„Is it them?“ someone asks in a rather shouty voice, Danish accent only slightly noticeable.

The man’s face before Hugh falls as if he had expected someone else.

„Is it the girls?“ another voice asks.

„No, just some dude, asking for you,“ the guy calls back into the room.

Some of the guys click their tongues, disappointed.

„Where is Mads,“ Hugh asks waspishly, in lieu of a greeting.

Hugh doesn’t have patience for this bullshit and pushes his way into the room, past the guy and walks straight to the round table where Mads is sitting, this time in denims and a flannel shirt, longish silver hair falling into his face. 

He is barefoot. Hugh swallows.

Mads looks up from his cards with a disinterested smirk.

„Let’s get this over with,“ Hugh hisses, „you want to fuck, let’s fuck.“

„Who says I want to fuck you,“ Mads says nonchalantly, looking back at his cards, then laying two down.

„Your turn,“ he says to the guy sitting next to him—Tim. Tim bares yellowish long teeth at him in a stupid grin, then waves and Hugh only shakes his head in disbelief that this man has the audacity to greet him as if they were friends.

„ _You_ texted me,“ he steps closer to Mads, „ _you_ fucking blackmailed me.“

Mads raises an eyebrow while perusing his cards. His attitude brings Hugh’s blood to the boiling point. How dare this motherfucker to be so detached, act so bored?

„Put down your fucking cards,“ he seethes, „you’ve got a shit hand anyway.“

The man sitting opposite Mads pricks his ears, looking up from his own cards.

„An four of diamonds, a three of hearts, nothing to write home about,“ Hugh informs the guy.

The guy grins and raises the bet.

Mads slaps the cards onto the table and finally looks at Hugh, his face impassive but with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

„Why are you here,“ he asks and Hugh blinks, thrown off.

_The nerve._

„I’m here because you blackmailed me. With these pics.“

Mads lights a cigarette, inhales. Hugh looks at the white plumes between his lips, forces himself to avert his gaze, dares not to swallow.

„Sent you pics but not to blackmail. Just fun.“ 

He exhales, and thick smoke curls up into the air. Hugh follows the plumes with his eyes before looking back at Mads’ lips.

„You don’t want to be here, go. Fuck off.“

Hugh swallows. This is all going wrong. Or not. No, nothing is going wrong here. He should be—glad, right? Mads doesn’t want to blackmail him. He opens his fists, closes them. The guys have gone quiet. When Hugh looks behind him he can see them staring at him, some of them with mirth in their eyes, as if this is all a hilarious joke.

He exhales.

„Okay,“ he says, but has no idea why he is saying that. He is stalling but why?

Then Mads speaks again.

„You can leave, but if you go back to the park to let your greedy hole stuffed with cock I’ll send the pics to every magazine. I’ll send them high res pics where everyone can see how you’re lapping up cum and sucking dick like the whore you are.“

„W—what?“ Hugh aghast steps closer.

„You heard me. You can leave, but that means no fucking for you. At all. If I find out you whore your ass out I’ll post the pics.“

Hugh doesn’t know what to say.

„Don’t believe me?“ Mads asks. His head is tilted back and he is regarding Hugh with a cold smirk. 

„Don’t believe I can’t find out?“

Mads reaches into the breast pocket of his atrocious shirt and pulls out his phone, thumbs in his pin, then reads.

„Seventeenth of October, eight o’ clock, Christopher’s Pier in New York. I don’t have your face, but I have your ass, your hoodie here.“ 

He shows Hugh a blurry pic of what is doubtlessly his stretched, reddened, leaking hole. The hem of his hoodie is in the pic. Worse than that, he’s got a mole on his left cheek and that mole shows up in other pics too, as Hugh knows, pics in which his face is visible, for example when he receives a fucking and is looking back over his shoulder.

Mads swipes to another pic.

„A few months earlier in London, under a bridge. Look!“

Mads shows him another pic, him sucking a long black cock. He remembers that one—it was so long he nearly suffocated on it, yet didn’t stop until he had stuffed it so far down his throat, he could press his nose into the man’s shaved abdomen. 

He realises only that he licks his lips, when he can hear Mads laugh. 

„Oh, so you’re obsessed with me,“ Hugh says angrily. „Following me, stalking me. Are you in love with me, huh?“

Mads laughs at that, and Hugh joins in with his own hateful, shrill laugh. His heart is pumping, his skin feels too tight, the air has been sucked out of this room. 

„As I said, you can leave,“ Mads takes a long drag from his cigarette. „Only then no one will fuck you. Have fun with your dildo.“

Some of the guys titter. 

Hugh clenches his jaw, aware of how his chest rises and falls with every breath he takes. It’s too hot in here. 

„But when you stay we’ll fuck you, just the way you need it,“ Mads says, his voice suddenly velvety and yet rough, „you’ll serve my cock just the way a filthy cum slut like you should serve it.“

Hugh hates how his breath catches. How his mouth feels dry and his throat clicks. Hates hates hates.

„No,“ he wants to say. „Fuck off,“ he should say. 

He should leave, with his head held high, slamming the door shut behind him. This is his chance. Mads is giving him a way out. He is holding the door open for him to walk through. Now Hugh just needs to walk out.

A moment passes. 

Another follows, stretches, then passes too.

Hugh swallows, and slowly, ever so slowly, the gaze he directs at Mads lowers towards the floor.

„You know what you need,“ he reminds himself. 

„You know what you are,“ he tells himself.

„Are you still here?“ Mads asks, not even bothering to look at Hugh any longer. (He shields his cards now from him.)

A muscle underneath Hugh’s eye twitches.

„Fuck you,“ Hugh says softly.

Mads ignores him, now seemingly focussing on his cards.

„You know where the door it is,“ he says.

Without turning around he says something in Danish, and a guy Hugh recognises—Anders? Nils?—points a remote at the huge TV screen in the middle of the room and the sound of a soccer match fills the room. With that the spell seems to be broken and the men break up into small groups, completely ignoring Hugh. They’ve been briefed by Mads Hugh assumes.

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

„I’m leaving,“ he thinks, „I’ll say my piece and then I’ll walk away from this.“

„What do you want?“ he hears himself say.

Mads laughs at a joke Tim is telling him.

„What do you want from me?“ he tries again, but the anger that has fuelled him before is gone and replaced by something else. 

_What the fuck are you doing?_

Every muscle in his body is taut, and he vibrates with tension. 

He can’t leave. It is as simple as that. He did not come here because Mads was blackmailing him into it. He knows that, he has acknowledged that, several times now, but somehow his awareness of this seems to be like a rubber band, always snapping back to the delusion that he has no say in this. 

He came here because he hungers for a fat cock in his hole, thrusting into his prostate just the way he loves it, for a cock fucking his mouth, for a load of thick, creamy cum in his face. He came here because he wants to be degraded and humiliated, called a slut, a whore, a bitch because that is what makes him go. He does not know why he needs it so much, but he can not live without it.

He wants.

„Alright,“ he says, remembering how he said it the last time. He expects Mads to walk over to him and forcing him onto his knees but Mads spares him barely a glance, continues to play.

After a while standing on the same spot, Hugh sets his jaw, nods to himself.

Around him the party begins to get noisy again. Beer cans are opened, a few guys snort coke on the couch table. Hugh can hear a credit card tapping on glass. 

Hugh unzips his hoodie, revealing his naked chest, then pulls it off. Swiftly and artlessly he pushes his track pants down, and stands fully naked in a room full of men. Tim looks at him, a wide grin on his face. He pushes Mads with his elbow and Mads finally deigns to look. 

The others have gone quiet again. Behind him Hugh can hear only the blaring voice of the sports commentator, and the roars of the crowd in a stadium far from here. 

Slowly he sinks onto his knees.

„Turn around,“ Mads says, „show me your cunt.“

Hugh skids around on his knees, then lowers his face onto the rug and reaches with both hands behind to pull his ass cheeks apart, showing Mads his hole.

He closes his eyes in shame. 

He hears Mads walking around him, bending down and inspecting his cleft and his hole.

„You disgusting whore,“ he says softly, „you expect me to touch this with my dick? You’re not even shaved.“

Hugh swallows. 

Next he sees is Mads flopping down on the couch, lighting another cigarette, turning the volume of the TV up.

„Wait,“ he says frantically, trying to ignore the guys laughing at him, „I can shave!“

„We were in the mood for girls, for pretty, pink, wet pussies, not the fucked out hole of an aging cockslut like yourself,“ Mads says.

Hugh swallows.

„And here you are not even bothering to make yourself fuckable,“ Mads continues, „you think showing up, displaying your hole makes me want to fuck you.“

„I’m sorry,“ Hugh is still on his knees, „please.“

Oh god, he is begging Mads. He is pleading with him. 

„What do you want me to do? I’ll do everything, I swear,“ Hugh whines, desperate now.

Mads shrugs. 

„I just wish you were a pretty bitch, you know“ he just says, then switches to the porn channel, where two large breasted girls are fondling and pulling each other nipples. Mads gesticulates with his remote at the screen. “Like them. They’re cute. Sexy.“

Hugh is speechless. This is a scene, choreographed and directed by Mads, but he doesn’t have the script. 

After a while of watching Mads and his friends watch porn clips featuring large-breasted women, he slowly gets up, his legs shaking. Someone shoves him, laughs,when he stumbles.

He looks around for the bathroom, and finds the door is left from the entrance. The men make space for him as he walks through them, but they grope him, as he passes, slap his ass, push him.

The light in the bathroom is blindingly white.

He finds a razor in front of the mirror, a still packed bar of soap, lotions and eau de colognes lined up in front of the mirror.

When he looks at his reflection he can see Mads leaning in the doorframe, his boys behind him, like a pack of slobbering dogs.

„What do you want me to shave?“

„All of it,“ Tim says from behind Mads, but Hugh keeps looking at Mads, who only nods, and confirms. „Shave it all off.“

He gets into the huge bath tub and turns the shower on. When the warm water hits his skin and wets his hair, he truly feels naked, more than ever. Astonished he realises he is crying.

Mads, probably mistaking the rising and falling of his chest as excitement, grins, revealing his long, uneven teeth.

Hugh raises the razor and begins to shave the dawny hair on his forearms, even the scattered, longer hair on his upper arms. He takes care to shave his arm pits. When he moves the razor to his chest, shaving the stray hairs around his nipples, Tim and two of his friends approach, excitedly palming their cocks.

Mads stays in the door frame.

He plants one foot on the rim of the bath rub and begins to shave his leg. He shaved before so he knows what he is doing, but the fact it’s a performance now makes him extra-conscious of his movements. When he experimentally caresses his own, now smooth leg with his hands, the skin around Mads’ eyes crinkle in amusement.

Hugh lies back in the tub, and the men move even closer, horny, red-faced, impatient.

With a determined movement Hugh holds on to the rim, then spreads his legs. He rinses the razor, under the hot water, then begins to shave his crotch—he is half hard. He raises his legs, placing his heels on the rim so he can shave the skin between the inner thigh and his crotch. Gently he slides the razor around his balls, then rinses the razor again, while lifting his taut balls for the men to see. 

He’ll never stop enjoying that peculiar mix of deep shame and arousal when he displays himself, and now with his face visible he finds it even more arousing. 

As he expected when he moves onto his knees to shave his hole, Mads finally comes closer too. 

Hugh peers over his shoulder, not immediately starting to shave but instead stroking his ass cheeks, kneading them, teasing the men around him.

„Putting a show on for us, slut,“ Mads comments, then he spits into his hand and without any forewarning slides two fingers into Hugh’s hole.

„You’re fucking loose,“ he says, „did you already take cock today.“

„I thought you always know what I’m up to,“ Hugh bites out, closing his eyes around the sharp pain pleasure of Mads’ fingers moving in and out of him, „you’re the one stalking me—ngh.“

Mads has expertly crooked his fingers and is rubbing him from the inside and Hugh’s brain is wiped out with pleasure for a moment. 

„Quiet, slut,“ Mads commands, then a moment later, „now shave your pussy, get on with it.“

Hugh takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the heat and the clenching of his hole, his dripping cock. He shaves the soft, now stretched skin around his hole, taking his time, perversely enjoying the verbal abuse Mads’ friends come up with.

The cool blade feels good, and when he is finished, he traces the newly shaved skin with his fingers to see if he has gotten everything. Mads pulls out his fingers, wiping them in Hugh’s hair, ignoring his bereft gasp.

„I’ve got something for you,“ he announces suddenly and leaves the bath room. It’s a strange atmosphere Hugh decided—some have their dicks out already, stroking themselves while looking at him, but they keep their distance. 

Hugh can hear Mads swearing in Danish, then talking to his friends. The guys closest to the bath tub grin down on him, as if they know what’s in store for Hugh. 

Mads returns holding a bunched up pink shopping bag that says „Cute Candy“ in neon yellow font in his hand.

„Put this on,“ he says and throws the bag onto the bathroom floor. Tim turns off the shower, and a guy, whose name Hugh can’t remember but has fucked him last time, grabs him by his hair and pulls him out of the tub, then empties the content onto his lap.

He snorts.

A mesh top in pink. A flared short skirt made from some shining material, so short it looks more like a belt. A red sheer thong. Pink platform stilettos. A plastic case with eye-shadows and several lipstick colours.

„You shouldn’t have,“ he says sarcastically but Mads slaps him.

„I already told you whores should keep their mouths shut except when they suck cock,“ Mads growls. He shakes Hugh’s head like an errant puppy.

„Do you understand?“

Mads is so close to his face and Hugh can smell his cigarette and beer breath.

„Y… yes,“ he breathes, aware of how hard he is. 

„Now I want you to look like the cock-hungry slut you are, so make yourself pretty, otherwise I won’t get it up for you tonight.“

With shaking hands he pulls out the top and pulls it over his head. The material scratches over his stiff nipples and he stifles a moan.

He can’t help himself but when he puts on the thong, kneeling on the bathroom floor, he spreads his legs even more, slowly and teasingly pulling the thong up, stuffing his rock-hard cock into the flimsy material, letting the leaking tip peek out. The skirt is so short it doesn’t even cover his ass. 

He has never indulged in cross dressing before—a line he had drawn for himself because he found it too risky and felt he’d like it too much. In fact his cock is aching and dripping. He can not stop the shaking of his hands. When he looks down on himself he can see his nipples poking obscenely through the mesh, despite the warm air, stiff and erect and dark.

Mads points at the make-up kit. „Make yourself pretty, slut!“ 

Hugh puts on blue eyeshadow—too much of it. Although he has watched an army of make-up artists skilfully paint Claire’s face over the years, he wouldn’t know how to apply make-up tastefully but Mads seems to approve of the garish mess, massaging his cock through his pants. Next Hugh artlessly smears on the lipstick. Too red, too messy but Hugh likes the whorish, trashy look it gives him. When he’s finished, Mads pushes the stilettos towards Hugh with his feet. 

„The shoes too,“ he says, his eyes glittering darkly.

Hugh nearly smirks. He grabs the atrocious, glittery high heels, pulls them on, then stands up experimentally, wobbling. He kind of likes how his feet look in them—long and thin. 

He sees himself in the floor-length mirror of the wardrobe, and he looks how he feels—cheap, slutty. Hugh can hear his blood thrum in his ears. 

The creature in the mirror is not Hugh Dancy, british celebrity and tv star, but some five dollar whore from the next gas station. 

Mads seems to be satisfied. He reaches out and gathers Hugh’s brown curls into two pigtails and forces him onto his knees. 

Tim steps forward and begins to fondle both of Hugh’s nipples until they’re big and swollen. 

„You could work the street the way you look,“ Mads comments, „maybe you should. Work the money in, I spend on your clothes. You’d love it so much, you’d forget to charge though.“

Hugh moans, the mental image arousing him. Without being prompted Hugh spreads his legs and shows everyone in the room his puckered hole. 

Mads tosses him the lube and like last time Hugh begins to play with his hole. It’s so smooth now, he can’t resist circling it, stroking it. He is aware he is moaning loudly when he slips in two fingers and strokes himself from the inside. 

He applies more lube, then inserts a third finger. It’s so good, he’s getting so close but he wants to come with a cock in his arse. Or two. His hole is aching with want, feels empty, even though he is fingering himself.

Mads interrupts him by pulling out his fingers, then orders him to pinch his nipples. 

„Please,“ he begs Mads, but really any of his friends would do. Mads only laughs.

„Down,“ he tells Hugh sternly as if he’s a dog.

Hugh obediently lowers himself to a kneeling position.

Mads takes his cock out, and Hugh immediately presses his lips against the shaft, then licks a strip up. Mads strokes himself once, slaps him with it, then presses it back between Hugh’s lips.

Hugh moans around that cock, slobbers over it to get it nice and wet. Gratefully he looks up at Mads. Mads just grabs his curls, on both sides and begins to fuck his mouth.

Before he comes, Mads pulls out though. Hugh cranes his neck and opens his mouth wide, chasing after the cock, but Mads only waves one of his friends instead to take his place.

The guy, a pale-blond, younger man and rather handsome, as Hugh thinks, unzips his denims. Hugh crawls over to him, takes the meat into his mouth. It feels huge and hot and rockhard, the shaft throbbing underneath silky skin.

Then the blond man grabs Hugh’s ears and pulls him onto his cock, and Hugh too blissed out, continues sucking him, making obscene noises. Soon enough Hugh tastes precum, and he doubles his efforts in order to get more, tongues the slit then pushes the man’s cock into his throat. With the years of cocksucking his gag reflex is non-existent.

Some of the guys standing around them, waiting for their turn, remark on this—how deep he can take cock. The fact no one stepped behind him and rammed his cock into his hole upsets him. For a moment, Hugh lets the shiny, wet cock slide out of his mouth and shifts on his knees, spreading his legs invitingly.

„Please,“ he whines, looking around beseechingly,„please fuck me. Please use my hole.“

„Begging for cock, huh?“ Tim asks. He pats Hugh’s head, then fishes his cock out of his pants. Hugh crawls over to the pile of his discarded clothes, searches his pockets until he finds his lube, then brings it to Tim.

Tim is stroking himself and Hugh unable to resist, gives his cock a greedy, wet lick, then opens the lube and starts applying it. 

„Some seriously thick stuff,“ Tim murmurs, pushing into Hugh’s hand.

Hugh fucks his own hole with three well-coated fingers, pushing the thong aside. 

„Greedy bitch,“ Tim mumbles.

Tim nudges his warm cleft with the head of his cock, and Hugh gets into position, grabs the blond guy’s cock and starts sucking the exact moment Tim slides in. Despite the fingering and playing there is an initial resistance and Hugh cherishes the slight pain. 

When Tim’s entire length is in, Hugh lurches forward and takes the cock in his mouth all the way down, until his nose is pressed into the man’s hairy belly. The man before him begins to pinch his nipples and Hugh releases a loud moan. 

When Hugh looks around to look for Mads he realises, he has returned to the table to continue his game, not even paying attention to him. Tim grabs his hair.

„Too bad we can’t have pig tails,“ he says, „that would be perfect.“

A guy calls out in Danish. Hugh thinks it’s Tommy, but isn’t sure. 

„I’ve got elastics,“ he says, and slides two off his wrist, and Tim laughing, binds Hugh’s hair into two pig tails, then experimentally pulls at them. The entire room is laughing now, including Mads who shakes his head over the antics of his boys.

„Now you look like a bimbo slut,“ Tim announces proudly, while thrusting into him. Hugh can only moan around the cock in his mouth in agreement. He is aware he is drooling. Pre-cum and spit is running down his chin.

The blond guy earns a new round of laughter when he takes Hugh’s little pig tails and use them as handlebars, rhythmically pulling them, fucking himself into Hugh’s mouth. Hugh’s deliberately moans in a higher voice, rubbing his nipples, getting louder the faster and harder his mouth gets fucked. 

The man pulls out, still hard and shining wet, cumming across Hugh’s painted whore face. He tries to catch it with his mouth open, red lips obscenely stretched, but most of it lands on his forehead, his cheeks, the pig tails.

Before Hugh can recover, another man is standing in front of him, his dick halfhard. Hugh braces himself against the man’s thighs, not looking up. He doesn’t want to see faces. A tanned hand fumbles with a zip, then a dark, slightly bent cock springs out, already hard and Hugh unable to suppress his greedy noises, slurps it down as if he’s been starved, as if he’s not just sucked off another huge dick.

Being the girl arouses him, being the bimbo slut. He had often fantasized about it, when watching porn. Not fucking her, but being her. If he had known how much he would enjoy this he’d done it earlier. How would it feel to have huge breasts with big, stiff nipples he wonders. To be able to squeeze cocks between them, feeling them slide up and down until they cum in his face.

(Mads would like it better, a tiny voice supplies.)

Mads and one of his friends he hasn’t met (aka fucked) yet, a handsome, silver-haired guy are watching porn, smoking and drinking. They talk about the girls in the clip in low voices, occasionally laughing or whistling.

The man in front of Hugh pulls out his dick from between his lips and slaps him hard with it, then shoves it back in. 

„Do that again,“ Tim says from behind, then pulls Hugh’s head back by his pigtails. 

„Look,“ he says and points at Hugh’s dick. When the man slaps him again, it twitches and releases a drop of clear, pre-cum.

„Aw,“ Tim coos, „does all the big guys being mean to you make you wet, you cock-sucking little bitch cunt?“

From all the men Hugh can’t stand Tim the least. What a fucking jerk. 

„Just shut up and fuck me,“ he hisses.

At least Tim has a huge cock and knows how to use it. Every time Tim’s cock is sliding in, he manages to hit that sweet spot and Hugh is drooling, shivering, so close to his first orgasm. He realises he went too far when he feels Tim pulling out.

„What did you say, you fucking cunt?“ Tim pulls at the pigtails again, „talking back, are we?“

He slaps Hugh a few times. 

„I’m sorry,“ Hugh hastily says, „please, I’m sorry. Please don’t stop.“

Tim is red with anger.

„I can’t believe this fucking slut,“ he murmurs.

He shouts something in Danish to Mads, who finally saunters closer, looking at him with detached amusement.

„Someone doesn’t know when to keep their whore mouth shut,“ he just says.

When Hugh attempts to crawl closer to Mads, Tim places his foot onto Hugh’s face and Hugh remains in position, ass raised up, trembling. 

Snarling Tim pushes him away. The guy whose cock he’d been sucking before, slowly strokes himself, standing over Hugh, but although he would love to taste the hot rod, he doesn’t dare to move, so he just remains lying on the tiles of the bath room.

„You know how dumb you look?“ Tim tells Hugh, „like a real bimbo cockslut.“

Yeah,“ Hugh manages weakly. His voice high, trembling.

As if on cue the other guy starts slapping Hugh with his rockhard-cock, smearing his make-up even more with pre-cum. From behind Mads takes his pig tails and winds them in his fingers so Hugh can’t move away.

Hugh tries to squirm away, but is rewarded with another slap in his face. As he looks down at himself he can see his cock, hard and needy. He feels his hole twitching, feels the mesh fabric scratch his sensitive nipples just so.

No matter what is being done to him, his body craves it. 

Words fail him, so he shuffles forward on his knees, then bends down, and takes Tim’s cock into his mouth, sucks him back to hardness. 

„That’s good, whore,“ he says, and when Hugh moans loudly around his cock, he continues to abuse him, but his voice is softer, more crooning. Mads isn’t doing anything but holding his head in place. Only when Hugh once puts his hand over Mads’ and pulls his own pigtail, forceful and brutal, Mads get the hint, and start manhandling him again.

When Hugh feels him getting close—the fat shaft getting bigger and starting to pump—he rams Tim’s cock into his throat and with a groan Tim spurts thick delicious cock cream into his mouth. Hugh licks him clean like a kitten and for a moment, Tim puts his hand onto Hugh’s head, but then yanks it away as if he has burned himself.

Hugh only lazily licks his lips, wanting more. 

If there is one thing he loves more than being fucked by huge dicks it’s to suck cock. It’s almost meditative to him, the worshipping of dick, the steady bobbing of his head and licking the shaft, coaxing patiently out the reward, white, hot cum.

Hugh turns around and nuzzles Mads’ crotch. Mads’ cock throbs hot through the fabric, and Hugh can feel his entire body wanting. He’s hungry for Mads’ fucking perfect rod. He closes his eyes and briefly remembers how Mads’ slid it into his hole that night in the park, and it felt so good, it felt so perfect. 

Mads sits down on the rim of the bath tub. Hugh crawls into the space between his legs. It’s a bit weird, because that way it feels as if it’s only him and Mads. Nervous tension grips him and he tries to swallow it away, lifts his face and smiles up at Mads, knowing what a picture he must be in his slut outfit and whore make-up. He licks his lips obscenely, then takes out Mads’ cock out of his pants. The heavy weight calms him a little. He runs the tip of his tongue underneath his frenulum and Mads’ mouth corner twitches into a smirk.

When Hugh strokes him, lightly squeezing the shaft, Mads sucks in his breath sharply. A drop of precum wells up at the tip, and Hugh makes a show of devouring it—sticking out his tongue, lapping at Mads’ cockhead like a dog, licking his lips after as if savouring the taste. And oh god, Mads’ cock is glorious. He can barely close his fist around the base.

It is entirely possible, Hugh knows, to absolutely adore and love a cock, despite having no friendly feelings for the man attached to the same cock. He can deal with that. 

After a short while of just lovingly tracing the fat veins on the cock he already feels something in his mind clicking in place. He takes the base of Mads’ cock into both of his hands, caressing it. Above him Mads’ grunts. His hips make tiny movements and his balls are twitching. Hugh directs another gaze from under his lashes at Mads, then slowly guides his hand onto Hugh’s head, encouraging him to push him. The lust unfurling in his lower belly and his hole, radiate upwards.

Mads’ hand lies heavy on his head, and Mads’ eyes are on him, and for the briefest moment the expression in them is strangely unreadable and nearly solemn.

Hugh closes his eyes and lets out a moan. He parts his lips, careful to show Mads, then sucks in the entire cock. Although Hugh has sucked many cocks in his life, Mads’ huge prick is a challenge. 

Of course, Hugh thinks sourly, Mads has to one-up him here again. The better actor, the more successful career, the better movies, the bigger prick. Out of pure malice he opens up his throat, takes his hands off Mads’ cock and braces himself against his thighs, then pushes the cock into his throat. There are not many who can withstand the tightness and heat of his throat. It nearly seizes around the bulbous mushroom head, but then it’s one smooth glide. He keeps his mouth open wide, careless of the spit running down his chin, cherishing the feel of that heavy shaft on his flattened tongue. Above him he can hear Mads’ gasp. One of his hands, Hugh can see, is balled to a fist, knuckles pressed against his mouth. Hugh pauses for a moment, adjusts his position, then swallows, hums and moans. He pulls back, leaving only the tip in his mouth, then pushes it back into his throat again, swallows, moans again. After three times, Mads curses, and Hugh nearly smiles. Like last time he can feel Mads’ cock getting even thicker and harder, throbbing and twitching in his mouth. 

He must be close.

Abruptly Mads pulls Hugh away, forcing him to release his cock, which is now glistening wet, covered in spit.

„You filthy cum slut,“ he says, struggling for air. Internally Hugh grins but he keeps an innocent yet lewd expression on his features, licking his swollen, parted lips.

He is struck by how different Mads’ eyes look. They’re usually hazel, more like honey sometimes, especially in the bright sunlight but now they are completely black. He roughly grabs Hugh at his neck and forces him to turn around. 

One of the guys, ever so perceptive, throws Mads the bottle of lube, and Hugh can hear him squeezing it onto his hand, then lubing his cock. Mads’ calloused hands push him down, so that his arse is raised, then he feels a blunt cock head nudging his hole.

Good.

Hugh feels more relaxed, now that he can see all the men standing around, fondling their dicks and balls. Some are palming themselves through their denims, some have opened their zippers and stroking their shafts. One of them, the silver-haired friend, is the owner of an especially nice specimen, long, think, uncut and Hugh locks eyes with him, then reaches for him, licking his lips in a whorish manner.

The guy’s smile is surprisingly charming—he looks as if he was devastatingly handsome in his youth, popular with women as with men, and has retained a cheerful, friendly attitude throughout his whole life. A man accustomed to being admired, at ease with himself. So self-assured (like Mads in a way) that age has not chipped away at his good looks but enhanced them. He approaches Hugh, and before pushing his cock into Hugh’s mouth, he looks at Mads.

„Dejan,“ Mads greets him, „what do you think about our entertainment.“

Dejan kneels. He pets Hugh, then rubs his knuckles affectionately against Hugh’s cheeks.

„Hello there,“ he says. Despite his white hair, his face is youthful. His eyebrows are still dark. 

Hugh however doesn’t want to waste time with conversation. He only blinks lazily at Dejan, like a cat, then reaches for his cock, and Dejan laughs at that.

„What a cute little slut,“ he tells Mads. 

Hugh can’t see Mads face, but Mads only replies with a grunt.

„Sharing our bitches like brothers,“ Dejan says, and Hugh can hear his Slavic accent. 

„Like in old times,“ Mads agrees. Before Hugh can chastise them to postpone their bonding session for after the fucking, Mads pushes into him and he moans out loudly

Dejan caresses Hugh’s face with warm fingers, then smoothes his hair, looking pensive for a while.

„Beautiful,“ he whispers, then he presses a thumb into the soft skin underneath Hugh’s cheekbone. Hugh’s lips fall open, and Dejan pushes in. Hugh finds that Dejan grips his head so firmly he can’t even move a millimetre away. Dejan slides his cock expertly into Hugh’s throat. Hugh moves frantically—he wasn’t prepared, and his throat is seizing up. Dejan notices and puts his large hand onto Hughs neck and throat, massaging it.

„Sh…“, he says, „you can take it, come on, take it.“

The rest of his cock slips into Hugh’s throat and Dejan closes his eyes briefly.

„You’re such a good cockslut,“ he tells Hugh, „do you love sucking cock very much?“

Hugh tries to nod, but the prick lodged in his throat prevents him from moving too much.

„Of course,“ Dejan says, smiling again. There is sweat on his forehead and the bridge of his nose.

Then Mads begins to move again. He slides in, the lube making squelching noises and like the other two times Mads has fucked him, Hugh could come instantly. It’s as if Mads’ cock has magic knowledge of his sweet spot, and manages to hit it with every thrust. 

When Mads fucks into him, Dejan pulls out, and vice versa. The two _are_ a team, Hugh can tell, their movements eerily coordinated. Soon Hugh moans and pleads and whimpers around Dejan’s cock.

Dejan has dropped his easy smile and he stares down at Hugh with dark, nearly black eyes, and somehow Hugh feels something inside him stir—a strange, new form of excitement. He likes that combination of charm and sweetness, hiding a hint of sadism, a stark contrast to Mads’ aggressive, almost blunt approach.

The things Dejan’s tells him are not so different than the things others tell him but the way he says them is different. Every filthy derogatory name turns into an endearment in Dejan’s mouth. Between his gasps Dejan’s strange little affectionate smile returns, as if he and Hugh know of a secret the others don’t.

Hugh worships every cock in his mouth, sucks and licks and lets himself gag on them but under Dejan’s gaze he does even more, lavishes more attention on it. He doesn’t care he feels like almost passing out, doesn't care that he’s wheezing, that he has begun to see black dots in his vision—he cares only about to swallow Dejan’s cum, to make him cum harder than ever before.

Behind him, Mads takes hold of his hip, fucks into him. He has changed his angle and suddenly Hugh finds himself incapable of thinking. He only wants to lose himself, and then Mads reaches down and around to stroke his sensitive nipples.

With a loud shout around the cock lodged in his throat, he starts cumming, clenching around Mads, swallowing even more of Dejan’s cock, truly impaled. 

Dejan tenses, his hands on Hugh’s head, grabbing his pigtails like handlebars, and cums into Hugh’s mouth, pulling out just enough so he can taste it but it’s so much, cum flows out his mouth and dribbles down his chin. When Dejan’s pulls out, a small last spurt splashes across Hugh’s face, smearing his make-up further. 

Mads has lost his rhythm, growls behind him like a wounded animal. 

„Feels nice … his pussy?“ Dejan pants.

Mads laughs, before delivering a punishing thrust.

„We fuck him because he begs us,“ he tells Dejan and Dejan laughs too.

Hugh hears himself screaming in ecstacy. Through his frenzy he beckons a few of the men who are jerking themselves off, closer.

„Come on,“ he begs them, „cum on me. Give me your cum. Cum on your cockslut.“

The man closest to him, Tommy, groans, aiming his cock at Hugh’s face and within a minute, a thick spurt of cum lands in Hugh’s expectantly opened mouth, drips form his chin. Another spurt hits him across his forehead and his eyebrows. Someone else cums in his hair, and he can feel thick ropes hit his back. Another guy he recognises, Nils, shoves his cock into Hugh mouth, and Hugh closes his eyes in bliss, as he drinks down the copious amount of cum.

„Look at that cum dumpster,“ he says, „you love cock don’t you?“

Hugh makes a show of licking that cock, opening his mouth, letting the men see the cum inside. Small puddles have formed on the tiled floor where Nils is standing, and Hugh bends down licking the cum off the floor.

„Fucking hell,“ someone says and Hugh can hear appreciative groans.

Someone is filming him of course—and instead of the panic and discomfort he should be feeling he only feels a strange satisfaction about being seen. 

At some point he even beckons the guy who is filming closer so he gets a better angle, fishes his cock out of his pants and starts sucking him off. The man doesn’t stop filming, and Hugh smiles serenely up at him, even when the man calls him a dog, a filthy hole.

He doesn’t care any longer. 

Mads behind him slows down, draws out his thrusts agonisingly. Hugh so close to coming, pushes his arse back. Mads stops him by gripping his hips and holding him in place.

When Hugh, annoyed by Mads’ change of pace, turns around to glare at Mads, Mads looks back at him, his eyes glittering strangely, bright and feverish. He cannot decode the expression on Mads’ face. Slightly irritated he turns away, braces himself.

Mads shifts and now he is much closer, and the changed angle causes a thicker part of Mads’ shaft to rub against Hugh’s sweet spot. He twists and pulls one of Hugh’s nipples, then kneads his chest. 

„You like your tits fondled, slut,“ Mads says, smirking. Then he begins to stand up but grabs Hugh’s thighs, and lifts him up as well, so his cock never leaves his hole. If it wouldn’t feel so good Hugh would maybe protest the manhandling but before he can think of something to say, Mads fucks into him, this time from above. He is still holding Hugh’s wide spread legs, one hand gripping his ankle, the other the back of his knee In this position Hugh nearly hangs down upside down, only his head is lying on the floor, and he can see his feets in the air, sticking in these ridiculous, slutty high heels. He can see Mads’ balls, his cock moving in and out of his hole his own cock pointing at him, hanging directly over his face, hard and dripping. Blood rushes to his head, making him feel dizzy. 

„Look at you, getting fucked in front of all these strangers,“ Mads says, and Hugh moans.

„I’ll sell your pussy out to anyone who wants it,“ Mads tells him, „I’ll chain you up in the next rest room and let everyone use you, fuck your mouth, fuck your hole, I let them piss on you.“

The mental image of himself chained up in some dirty restroom, serving cocks breaks him, and Hugh comes with a scream. Thick, hot spurts of his own cum splash onto his face and he drinks it up greedily, lost in his orgasm. 

At the same time he can feel Mads thrusting so deep all the cum of the man before him squelches out, trickling down his stomach, his chest, soaking the pink mesh top.

„Oh god, oh god,“ he babbles, incapable of anything more intelligible, then Mads’ grunts and cums inside him. With a groan he pushes in deep, forcing another moan out of Hugh, then pushes him away so that he crumbles into an undignified heap. He sinks down onto his knees, pushing his still hard, glistening cock between Hugh’s parted lips.

„Clean me up, whore,“ he orders and Hugh, very much like the last time, licks him clean. After he’s done, Mads wipes his cock in Hugh’s hair, then gets up. 

Behind him the boys amuse themselves by pulling his arse cheeks apart and taking pics of all the cum leaking out of his hole.

Hugh is too exhausted to protest, only manages a small whine, when fingers brush the oversensitive rim.

A few minutes later, when someone tells him to get lost, he slowly pushes himself up, crawls to his pile of clothes. He has to toe off the high heels. The pants stick on his thighs. His entire body is sticky with cum. His arms are shaking so badly, it takes some time to put the hoodie back on. He finds his glasses, of course covered in someone’s cum. The boys cheer, when Hugh, beyond any such concepts like dignity just licks them clean, pink tongue flicking over glass, then puts them into his pocket. He can feel another spurt of warm cum trickling out of his hole, when he stands up and staggers to the door.

Without a word of goodbye he opens the door, but glances back over his shoulder. None of the guys, including Mads, acknowledge him, all busy lining up coke on the couch table. 

The only one looking is Dejan, his strange little smile playing around his lips, his eyes hooded.

Hugh steps out into the hallway and closes the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will probably be it for a while. I love comiing back for it and writing just to relax but I have to update another fic first! Thank you for reading and being patient with my unbeta-ed drivel!


	4. Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wait! There is more!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This contains water sports.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> If this isn't your thing—I'll add a short summary next chapter, so you can skip this chapter. Not that my fics ever really need "summaries" lol.
> 
> It also contains a whole lot of asshole Mads and asshole Dejan. You decide who's the bigger asshole. (No, it's not Hugh's. Or ... ok, maybe.)
> 
> Anyway, this is my ILU to all the lovely fannibals I met at BTRD2 this year. It was fantastic to meet you and I hope to meet those soon I haven't met yet. I love you although admittedly I have a strange way to show my love.
> 
> A big big big THANK YOU and hip hip hoooray to my beta [Viv](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Chifuyu/pseuds/Chifuyu) who has whipped this hot mess into consumable, readable porn. ILU VERY MUCH!
> 
> * * *

Three weeks later Hugh spots Dejan at the Met Gala of all places. Mads isn’t invited and is presumably in Copenhagen—filming has wrapped up for this season but in the general rush Hugh had no time to discreetly investigate Mads’ exact whereabouts. He had somehow assumed Dejan would be gone as well, together with Mads’ disgusting entourage. He ignores him, pretending not to notice him. When Hugh poses for photographs, he can feel Dejan’s amused glance directed at him. Someone asks Claire about her dress and she shifts uneasily beside him. Pretending to kiss her cheek for the photographs he whispers the designer into her ear—he has actually picked the dress. Claire has no patience or interest for picking outfits and he happens to be good at it. (Hugh takes pride in knowing he has prevented many a ball gowns disasters because she approved of a design she hadn’t even looked at before.)

Claire gratefully presses his hand and continues smiling at the reporter. From the corner of his eye Hugh sees Dejan is gone. Relieved he flashes the reporter a toothy grin who blushes.

Sometimes, the numerous public appearances are a point of contention between them. Claire wants to move to the countryside, buy a house and reduce public appearances to once, maybe twice a year „like Angelina and Brad“. It’s not that Hugh enjoys galas, premieres or award shows but his voice has an icy bite when he explains to Claire that their market worth is not exactly „like Angelina’s or Brad’s“. It’s good to face reality. Her show is, of course, safe and she’s got another Emmy nomination, while his show seems perpetually on the cusp of being cancelled.

After they leave the gala Claire changes into another outfit (one he did not pick out), a rubberised black denim and a loose grey silk top. If not for him she would have worn black vans with them, but he had the stylist convince her to wear black peep toes. Whenever he’s cranky, she acts shy and tense around him, which, in return, makes him even crankier. She has refused to hang out at The Standard any longer, so now they’re heading to one of the smaller after-show parties which takes place in a hotel suite.

„Are you alright?“ she asks him several times in the car, and he can only barely resist the urge to snap at her.

At the party she immediately flees his side, willingly letting herself be pulled away by her group of girlfriends, an apologetic smile on her lips. Later, he sees her surrounded by them, all of whom can’t stand him. They probably masturbate to shirtless pictures of him anyway, he thinks sourly, jealous of Claire’s beautiful, youthful husband when their own men look like shapeless potatoes. Hugh feigns a smile when one of the New York ladies, as he calls them, catches his eye. He holds his phone up to his ear, then leaves the room, letting her believe he has an urgent call to answer.

It’s stifling in the apartment—he could fight through the crowd in the living room to get onto the terrace but decides to take the lift down instead and step out onto the street. Maybe he has a quiet minute to peruse Facebook, check his emails. Most of the paparazzi are at other, bigger parties anyway.

On the way to the entrance door he collides with a broad chest. 

When he raises his head to mumble an apology he stares into Dejan’s smiling face.

He takes his arm, and Hugh feels the touch burning through layers of fine-spun wool, silk and cotton. Dejan’s polite smile has ice underneath. Hugh puts his phone away, nods and tries to get past him, but Dejan doesn’t let go.

„Good to meet you again,“ he says, his voice with this heavy lilting accent feeling like a gentle caress. Against his will he returns Dejan’s smile.

„You look beautiful. A bit uncomfortable though,“ Dejan comments.

Hugh swallows.

„It has been a long day,“ he says, „but I’m not uncomfortable. Merely a bit exhausted.“

He’s sweating in his fine clothes. It’s as if Dejan can see right through him.

„I’ll leave soon,“ he lies.

Dejan just continues to stare.

„I’ve never fucked a man who could orgasm so intensely just with a cock in his arse, and I had my fill of cock sluts,“ Dejan muses.

„Keep your voice down,“ Hugh hisses.

A group of people passes them and Hugh flattens himself against the wall. When the group is gone, Dejan presses himself against Hugh. He can feel an erection against his thigh, hot and heavy and thick. Hugh resists the temptation to palm it, stroke it.

„I like you better naked, crawling on the floor and begging for cock,“ Dejan says. He strokes Hugh’s arm, slides his hand down his flank, along his hip and without hesitation grips Hugh’s cock through his pants.

He is, embarrassingly enough, hard too.

Dejan smirks, then grabs Hugh’s buttocks, squeezes the flesh and digs his fingers into the cleft.

Hugh bites his lips, stifles a moan.

„I bet that sweet little cunt of yours is twitching right now,“ Dejan whispers right into Hugh’s ear. „Don’t you want to undress, kneel and spread your cheeks to show me your hole?“

„Stop talking,” Hugh mumbles, barely audible.

He doesn’t shove Dejan off him, doesn’t move away.

„I want to train you to be my proper fuckhole,“ Dejan continues unperturbed, „to be my little whore.“

Hugh moans and he presses his hot, blushing face against Dejan’s shoulder. Unbidden, images of himself, chained, collared and kneeling, crawling on all fours, come to his mind. (He has always wanted to have someone dominate him, someone reliable who he’d go to when he was stressed out, when he needed to calm his mind.)

Then, taking a deep breath, he straightens up and removes Dejan’s hands from him.

It can’t be.

„My wife and I are here together so I have to decline,“ he says in a pointedly polite tone, meant to put some distance between them.

„Hugh,“ a female voice behind him says, and he nearly jumps. He stares into Flavia’s face, Claire’s oldest friend. She too, never warmed up to him but he appreciates that she never pretends.

„Claire and us, we’re leaving in Ann’s and Lena’s cars—it’s just the girls, Claire, me, Ann, Lena, Mary and Zoe—would you like to join? We want to hang out somewhere quieter.“

„I’ll stay here for a while and then head home, if Claire doesn’t mind that I take the car,“ Hugh says a bit too quickly. He can see Dejan watching him with amusement.

„That’s ok, I’ll send her home with my driver later,“ Flavia says. She bids both men goodbye, then slinks back through the crowd to the large living room.

„Well, you just got released from your obligations, didn’t you,“ Dejan comments.

„I guess,“ Hugh mumbles.

Wasting no time, Dejan unbuttons Hugh’s jacket, slips his warm hand underneath and presses the pad of his thumb into one of his nipples. Hugh turns around to see if anyone is watching them, but it’s too dark and everyone is drunk and engrossed in their conversations. Dejan pushes, then pinches hard, and the sensation goes straight to Hugh’s hole. He swallows, already hungry for cock.

„I’m staying at a place, a serviced apartment, just a five minutes drive from here,“ Dejan whispers into Hugh’s ear, „we can leave through the garage, get straight into the car, and no one will be any wiser.“

He shouldn’t. 

There are so many reasons why he shouldn’t. What if somebody sees him leaving with Dejan? What if someone there recognises them? Every fiber in his body tells him not to.

He really, really shouldn't.

„Let’s go,“ he tells Dejan curtly.

He turns around and heads for the exit, passing people without saying goodbye. During that time of the night no one cares anyway.

 

The rental Nissan van is comfortable and sufficiently unobtrusive. Their drive is indeed short. Hugh asks Dejan some questions but only to hear his smooth, accented voice: not as deep and rough around the edges as Mads’, more like steel and silk. He watches Dejan’s fingers on the gear shift, long, more elegant than one would guess.

At the entrance gate to a large, apparently new building Dejan leans out the window, flashing something like a key card and two men in dark suits open the gate. Hugh pays close attention to where Dejan parks—his spot is in the back of the garage.

It’s perfect.

When Dejan pulls the key out of the ignition, Hugh lays a hand onto his arm. Dejan only looks at him, eyebrows raised questioningly.

Without offering an explanation, Hugh bends over Dejan’s groin, first caressing his cock through the fine wool of his dress pants with his slightly stubbled cheeks, then mouths it. He smiles when he feels it twitch against his lips.

„I’ll suck you off here,“ Hugh says. He has no desire to see, acquaint himself with Dejan’s rooms. He only wants to get off.

Dejan’s eyes are unreadable in the darkness when he inclines his seat, leaning back. Hugh discards his jacket, then unceremoniously opens the zip and pulls out Dejan’s thick cock.

He regards Dejan with a deliberately lewd smile, licking his lips. Dejan caresses his faces, pushes his curls back behind his ears and grips his cock to slap it onto Hugh's red lips a few times. Obediently, like the good little slut he is, Hugh opens up and gives the shaft a few small licks.

Closing his lips around Dejan’s mushroom head he starts to suck. It tastes clean, and he can smell expensive, perfumed shower gel and Dejan’s own musk. With one hand Hugh strokes the base of Dejan’s cock, distributing his spit, with the other he unbuttons his own trousers, pushes briefs and trousers down and raises his ass.

Dejan reaches over his back and slaps it, the sheer force of it pushing his cock deeper into Hugh’s throat.

He takes a small bottle out of his glove compartment and uncaps it, then pours its contents down Hugh’s cleft. It feels wet and warm, not unlike a tongue. Hugh squirms and moans. Dejan lazily circles his fingers around his wet hole and Hugh can’t help but push back.

Outside, he can hear car doors slamming, people talking on their phones, walking around, their steps echoing in the garage. The notion of people doing mundane, everyday things a few metres away while he’s busy sucking cock, sends a thrill through him. He wonders how close they’d have to get to see him through the tinted windows.

Dejan’s cock is thick, uncut and smooth, unlike Mads’ veiny, almost ugly erection. It feels, tastes different. (Mads’ cock seems hotter, angrier, harder, pulsing with hateful lust, Hugh thinks.)

Dejan lays a heavy hand onto his head, pushes. Despite Hugh’s excited moans he refuses to insert his fingers into his hole, instead just gently strokes the rim.

„I’d keep you,“ says Dejan, „naked, chained like the bitch you are. I’d teach you to suck off my friends, to present yourself when either of us wants to fuck you. That’s what you’re good for.“

Hugh’s closes his eyes in utter bliss. When Dejan finally slides his fingers in and immediately presses the right spot he moans gratefully.

„If you’re too greedy, too much of a slut, which you’ll undoubtedly be, I’ll punish you by plugging you up and displaying you on my front lawn. Tell my friends they can use your mouth as a toilet when they need to take a piss.“

Hugh feels warm precum on his tongue and sucks harder, chasing the taste.

„I can feel you clench around my fingers, you greedy whore,“ Dejan goes on, still in his gentle voice.

He continues to play with Hugh’s hole, brushing over his sweet spot, that fat little gland inside, but then pulls his fingers out and strokes the rim in an agonisingly slow rhythm. No matter how much Hugh whines and wriggles his ass, Dejan doesn’t change his pace.

Finally, when Hugh can’t stand it any longer, he pulls off Dejan’s cock.

„Come on, fuck me,“ he pleads, arching his back. He lays his head down onto the seat between Dejan’s strong legs, takes his balls into his mouth.

Dejan, sitting back with spread legs, strokes his spit-slick cock leisurely.

„You think you can tell me what to do?“ he asks. There’s a dangerous edge to his voice, steel wrapped in silk. 

Hugh blinks.

„I’m sorry,“ he breathes, „I’m sorry, I need it so much. I need your cock so much, I’ll do anything for it, anything you want.“ He lowers his head to continue sucking, but Dejan pulls him away by his hair.

„Did you really think I’d fuck your dirty hole?“ Dejan’s chuckles softly. Hugh grits his teeth and waits patiently.

Then Dejan reaches into his pocket and pulls something out—a condom, and Hugh sighs in relief. Dejan is just playing games, taunting him.

„Why are you still wearing clothes, slut," Dejan grouses and Hugh scrambles to unlace his fine leather shoes, toes off the low-hanging trousers and is soon completely naked, kneeling awkwardly on the passenger seat.

Dejan looks at him, his half-lidded gaze bored and faintly amused, while he strokes his rock-hard erection. Hugh stares at it, swallows, then opens his mouth and licks his lips to show Dejan how hungry he is for it. When a drop of pre-cum gathers at the tip, slightly milky, (not as clear as Mads’ precum, Hugh thinks) he can barely keep himself from straddling Dejan and sinking down onto his fat cock.

Dejan sighs, keeping up the appearance of boredom. „I’m not in the mood to fuck you, but you’re a fucking bitch in heat, so it’d be cruel not to help you.”

He tears the condom package open, slowly, deliberately, and places the rubber on the tip of his cock but hesitates at the last moment. Hugh surges forward to help him roll it down his shaft, but Dejan slaps him again.

„Calm down, slut,“ he tells him off.

„If you don’t fuck me now, I’ll crawl out of the car and offer my hole to the next guy who passes by,“ he implores Dejan in a low voice. He’s more serious about it than he should be.

_(One of these days I’m going to lose it. I’m going to do something incredibly stupid and I'll regret it and I’ll lose everything.)_

„Yes, you would, wouldn’t you?“ Dejan smiles gently, patting Hugh’s curls. He takes the rolled up condom between his fingers. 

Hugh waits, eager, trembling.

Then Dejan places it on the gear shift.

„What?“ Hugh is momentarily stunned.

With one fluid movement, Dejan rolls the glistening, lubricated condom down over the bulbous plastic head. He reaches for Hugh’s hair again and yanks him towards him, so that Hugh is seated with his back to the window, one knee on the passenger seat, the other on the driver seat, right between Dejan’s legs. Despite the relatively large space, he has to lean forward and brace himself on the backs of the seats.

„Are you serious? You want me to fuck your gear stick?“ Hugh asks.

„It’s the only thing you’ll get up your ass tonight,“ Dejan replies.

Hugh stares between his spread legs, where he can see the protruding gear shift, wrapped in moist rubber. The size would suffice.

„Admit it, you don’t care,“ Dejan says coolly, „you’d fuck anything, anyone. Don’t pretend to be anything else than a pathetic cumslut. Don’t pretend you think of anything else than cock.“

He takes Hugh’s face between his fingers, stroking his jaw with his thumb.

„You deceive no one,“ he adds.

Hugh nods, dropping all pretense. Dejan is right.

He lowers his lubed, wet ass on the gear shift, rubbing the plastic head over his cleft a few times before he sinks down on it, looking Dejan dead in the eye while he does it. The head presses against the rim and he can feel himself opening up much too easily. His ass is so used to being fucked, it reacts like a pussy—instead of tightening he can feels his muscles relax then begin to hungrily grasp and clench at the gear shift. The knob slides in, and Hugh throws his head back, shivering when a wave of hot white pleasure shoots up his spine and stiffens his cock. He lifts one leg, plants his foot on the seat to get better leverage and sinks further down. The heat of his body quickly warms up the rounded plastic.

Dejan’s eyes are black now and a cruel smirk etches a curve around his mouth.

„I didn’t think you’d really do it,“ he says, shaking his head, „but here you are: fucking yourself on a fucking gear shift, you’re that desperate for it.“

He strokes himself faster. His triumphant expression ignites more lust in Hugh.

„Move,“ he instructs Hugh, who promptly obeys.

Hugh adjusts his angle a bit to find the perfect pressure.The unforgiving plastic and the unchanging angle are a challenge, but after a while he has found the most pleasant position. And now, every time he sinks down, his swollen prostate is hit and his pink, wet cock twitches, dripping pre-cum. Dejan holds his hand underneath and some of it drips into the hollow of his palm.

He brings it to Hugh’s lips.

„Here, I’ve got something for you,“ he says, and Hugh licks his hand clean without missing a beat.

The rest Dejan smears over Hugh’s chest, then continues to play with his stiff nipples, smiling when they get even bigger and redder, pulling and pinching them hard.

Hugh is close. He can feel the heat filling him inside, can feel his ass beginning to clench and unclench, feels the wave nearing.

All of a sudden, Dejan moves, puts a knee up on the seat, bringing his hips as close as possible to Hugh’s face, and Hugh, understanding the intention, opens his mouth and stares at Dejan’s cock, his fast-moving hand.

„That’s what you want, isn’t it,“ Dejan sneers, and with a last stutter of his hips, cums in thick, white ropes all over Hugh’s chest, face and hair. Another rope goes into his mouth, and Hugh swallows and licks greedily, moaning loudly. He licks Dejan's softening cock clean.

He doesn’t care any longer if someone can hear them, if anyone even sees him, he’s too close. With another cry, he sinks down once more, drives the stick deeper into his ass, rides it, then lifts himself again, feeling so so close, holds the position for a few moments, torturing himself.

He’s seated on the gear shift again, the plastic so deep inside his ass his cheeks are touching the metal of the base, when the car door is yanked open and the harsh light from outside spills into the cabin.

„What the—?“

Dejan, who has just tucked himself away, is being pulled roughly out of the car. When Hugh wants to lift himself up, panicked and confused, a strong hand pushes him down again.

„Down, whore,“ a familiar voice says.

Not Mads—Tim.

His face appears, a streak of reddish hair falling over his face, as he swings himself into the now deserted seat. The backdoors open, and two other friends slide inside and make themselves comfortable across Hugh.

Momentarily struck dumb, Hugh says nothing, just looks outside. Mads is there, standing close to Dejan.

„I told you not to touch him,“ Mads says.

Hugh blinks and shifts a little, but when he tries to move, Tim clamps his hand around his shoulder.

„I said, down,“ he snarls, and Hugh decides it’s wiser to stay put for now.

„Weren't you in the middle of something? Don’t let us stop you,“ Tim says. 

He grins.

The two friends in the backseat are snickering.

„This is great,“ one of them says in a heavily accented English.

Still caught up in his own lust, Hugh isn’t the slightest bit intimidated by their dark, predatory looks. On the contrary, they spur Hugh on, and he flashes them a brief feral grin before he continues fucking himself. Adding some dramatic flair — he is still an actor after all — he lets his tongue hang out his mouth, pants and moans loudly, begins to pinch his own nipples.

Outside Dejan and Mads are loudly arguing, surrounded by the pack of useless, drunk hobos Mads calls “friends”. 

„I trusted you,“ Mads says.

„It was his own decision,“ Dejan replies in a deceptively cool, unmoved tone, but from his vantage point Hugh sees how he drums his fingers nervously against his thigh, „he can whore his hole out to whoever he wants to. He begged me for it—who am I to deny a slut?“

„I wouldn’t touch what’s yours,“ Mads retorts, „I respect you that much. And you knew I wouldn’t tolerate it, otherwise you wouldn’t have done it behind my back.“

„Yours“ scoffs Dejan, „he’s in my damn car, fucking himself on a gear shift, he doesn’t care. He’s nothing, just a fuckhole, and he doesn’t want to be anything else. Some whores are born to be just that—holes for cock.“

Mads falls silent for a moment, then slowly, oddly soothing: „You’re right, my friend. But as long as I use him, he’s my cum dump. You can have him whenever you ask for it, for his hole, his mouth. I wouldn’t deny you, you’re my friend. You know you can come to my house whenever you want or need anything. You can eat the food out of my fridge, drink all my beers, sleep in my bed — I’d never ever deny you but I expect you to ask. Just ask me.“

Dejan seems to be taken aback. He stares at Mads as if he has never seen him before, then nods slowly.

„Okay,“ he says finally, sounding bewildered. He raises his hands, palms up, lets them fall again, „if that’s what you want—okay.“

The men standing around Dejan and Mads seem to relax. 

„Phew,“ Tim says, more to himself than anyone, „that was a close call.“

Hugh distracted by the knob pushing his prostate so perfectly can’t really comment on that, but takes Tim’s word for it.

Mads and Dejan are shaking hands now.

„I’ll call you tomorrow,“ Mads says and turns to walk to the car, dismissing Dejan.

Dejan though waits for a beat, then a slow, lazy smile appears on his face.

„Hey,“ he calls out to Mads, „but when your cum dumpster comes crawling to me I will use it—that’s what he’s here for after all!“

Tim swears in Danish, under his breath.

Hugh doesn’t want it—he wanted to stave his orgasm off, to last longer, to not cum before these guys and in this surreal situation—but on hearing these demeaning words, he arches, his spine taut like a bow, his balls drawing up and pumping, and then he’s coming, his ass clenching tight around the gear shift.

„Ngh,“ is all he can say, nothing intelligible, only broken animal sounds.

When he opens his eyes, Dejan is lying on the ground while Mads straddles him, punching his face.

Tim swears, this time in English, yells a loud, angry „Fuck“, then climbs out of the car. When his friends try to follow, Tim barks something in Danish and they remain in the car with Hugh.

„You stay where you are,“ he commands but Hugh wouldn’t be able to move anyway, boneless and red in the face as he is from his orgasm and covered in cum. He’s still making minute movements though, keeping the low, steady pressure of the knob on his prostate.

In the meantime, the two other guys have pulled out their phones and are now taking pics of his cum-covered face and chest, even snap some close-ups of the gear stick, right where it enters his ass.

The commotion becomes louder again, and Hugh leans forward a little to get a better look at what is going on in the abandoned parking lot. Tim is pulling Mads off Dejan, who is being helped up and then held upright by two other guys. One of them had a really nice, fat cock, Hugh remembers.

Tim is hissing something at Mads and is ignored. With his mouth pulled up into a ferocious snarl, his uneven teeth visible, Mads is kicking Dejan. 

Dejan, bleeding from his nose, laughs.

„Fuck off,“ Mads yells, but Dejan laughs only louder.

„Look,“ he wheezes, „I’m sorry! Alright? I’m sorry, but you're too funny!“

Someone tells him to shut up, then another guy joins and the three of them drag Dejan inside another car.

Mads has calmed down and Tim takes him to Dejan’s van.

„Hej,“ Tim says to the two guys in the backseat. He speaks in rushed Danish with them and they scramble out of the car and walk towards the car Dejan is presently in. 

Mads gets in, sitting in the middle of the backseat, looking directly at Hugh’s exhausted, dripping cock, the gear shift still stuck in his ass.

Tim gets in from the other side, but remains close to the door, just watching.

(Oh god help him, the fucking gear stick still feels so good in his ass.)

„If your wife could see you like this,“ Mads muses, his eyes crinkling with false mirth.

„What makes you think she hasn’t,“ Hugh grits out between his teeth.

Mads smiles as he takes Hugh’s words in.

„I told you your hole is mine,“ he says.

„I don’t think you used those exact words,“ Hugh replies, looking at Mads from underneath his lashes. His knees are trembling from keeping still in this awkward position.

„You’re really a bitch in heat, with absolutely no control over yourself whatsoever, hm?“ Mads muses, watching him carefully.

At that, Hugh throws his head back and laughs.

„We’ve established that quite a while ago, didn’t we? Running out of ideas on how to humiliate me?“

He briefly clenches around the gear stick, then continues to slowly fuck himself, sliding up and down and undulating his hips.

„This is good,“ he says, looking at Mads with half-lidded eyes.

Tim palms himself through his cargo pants, casting a furtive glance at Mads. Mads only smirks.

„Go on,“ is all he says. He leans back.

Hugh braces himself with one hand on the ceiling of the car and picks up speed. He’s aware that after his last orgasm it might take a while until his cock hardens again. Sometimes he just cums from anal stimulation alone, and his cock doesn’t get very hard at all, especially if it’s the third or fourth time during a night. The condom begins to feel rough and a bit dry and he looks around for the lube.

Mads reaches for Hugh’s head, pulls him roughly closer and bends him down. The gear shift does not yield though and in this position it’s slightly painful. Hugh winces.

Then Mads spits viciously into his face and slaps him, pushing him back.

„Use this,“ he instructs Hugh, „that’s all you deserve, slut.“

Hugh wipes the spit with his fingers off his face, then reaches underneath him and wets the gear shift, distributes the spit around his hole, experimentally sliding up and down.

His heart is racing and hot fury settles in his stomach, but it only fuels his ever increasing lust. He looks down and is not surprised to see his cock stiff and wet once more, a drip of clear precum connecting the tip with the piece of fake wood interior between the seats.

He can hear himself panting, like a dog. A grin is distorting his face, but he can’t tell why. Why does he feel triumphant? Is it the seething anger in Mads’ face? With all the smugness wiped off his features?

Hugh fucks himself violently and every time the knob pushes into his prostate he pulls at his nipples.

By now, Tim has pulled out his cock and jerks himself off, muttering in Danish but Mads just sits there, watching Hugh, not even palming himself. He would look bored, were it not for the strange wildness in his eyes.

Hugh has seen him angry before, contemptuous and cold, but he has never seen this particular expression on his face, and Hugh can feel something ugly rising in him too.

„Dejan makes me cum with his voice alone, with the things he says,“ he suddenly grinds out between two brutal thrusts, „at least he knows what he’s doing.“

Mads blinks, lifts his head. He looks as if he is considering the biting words, or savouring them, Hugh isn’t sure.

„You always get excited when someone treats you like the slut you are. Always so eager to debase yourself—I have never met anyone who’s gagging for being treated like shit as much as you do. You could‘ve easily ended up down on your knees, whoring yourself out to random men in some dirty restroom, sucking cocks for a few dollars, licking boots for less.“

„Unf,“ Hugh bites his lips, fucking himself faster and faster. He’s so very close. Tim grins at him, red-faced, and Hugh opens his mouth, obscenely licks his lips while looking at the other man’s cock. With a grunt Tim cums, then gathers some of his jizz in his palm and feeds it to Hugh who laps it up greedily, his eyes never leaving Mads’ face.

„Well, I guess, that’s how you’ll end up anyway, as someone’s cumslut, barely good enough to be their fuckhole.“

„Yeah, give me more,“ Hugh taunts him, breathless, „you want to break me? Come on, give it another try.“

Before he has finished speaking Mads yanks him up by his hair and pulls him close. Hugh grabs the back of the seat to steady himself, thinking that maybe Mads wants his cock sucked. He opens his mouth expectantly but then he feels something warm and wet spraying his face and his chest.

„What…?“

Mads is pissing on him. 

Hugh can’t believe it, can’t believe this is happening to him, can’t believe Mads would go so far.

Mads pushes him away. With a cry Hugh falls back onto the gear shift and arches up, his body too far gone to stop his orgasm. His ass is convulsing around the knob of the gear shift, and although he’s internally screaming at his body to stop cumming, to stop humiliating him, he can’t help it, wave after wave hits him, his cock spurting cum. It seems like an eternity until he comes down from his high. He must have screamed for real — his throat hurts. He can’t move, so exhausted his limbs are shaking uncontrollably. The aftershocks of his orgasm still wrecking his weakened body.

Mads and Tim leave the car without turning back. The door of the van opens and Dejan is pushed out.

As Mads passes him, he tells him, „The slut is now also trained as a toilet.“

Dejan eyes Mads with disbelief, then approaches his car with trepidation.

Hugh can hear the guys hollering as Mads enters the van, the vehicle leaving the garage with screeching tires. He should move, at least from his compromising position, but his legs shake too badly. When he tries to sit up, another embarrassing aftershock goes through him, weak yet still shamefully arousing.

There is no coming back from this, he thinks. He came all over himself with Mads pissing on him, and Mads saw it and he’ll never forgive him for it.

Dejan peeks into the car, scrunching up his face.

„Mads, you fucking asshole,“ he mumbles, but then chuckles as he regards Hugh still sitting on that gear stick.

He fishes out the keys from his pockets then throws them unceremoniously onto the seat.

„You better have this car cleaned,“ he tells Hugh, „it’s a rental.“

He reaches into the glove compartment, takes out a pair of sunglasses.

„You’re not driving me home? After what … happened?“ Hugh’s voice is quivering.

Dejan only shakes his head.

„I’d happily let you serve my cock, but Mads is my friend. I’m not going to fight him over some slut so I’ll go up, take a nice hot shower and get myself a cab to the airport tomorrow.“

„You fucking asshole,“ Hugh spats, and he doesn’t care his voice is shrill, „you fucking cunt.“

„The way it looks to me, from the two of us you're the hole here. You're the cunt,“ Dejan says over his shoulder, laughing about his own joke, already walking away from the car. As he exits the garage, Hugh can hear him whistling.


	5. 99 Pirate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a long time 99 Pirate was the only lipstick I wore. I liked the thought it would be the shade Hugh would wear here hence the title of this chapter.
> 
> I always ask you to be gentle with me, because let's face it, I don't take critique very well, not even deserved constructive criticism. One day I will maybe try to be a better person but until then I ask you to be kind—especially with this chapter. I write fluff and romance very rarely, and I admit I have no reliable instinct when it comes to these things so I hope this goes well.
> 
> I would like to present this chapter as a belated Christmas gift to Chifuyu, my occasional beta, collaborator and awesome friend. I love you very much and I hope you like it.
> 
> Thank you dear Supastag for betaing this chapter, you rock!

Mads and Hugh have taken to their old game of public flirtation and display of friendship. 

Bryan spams their facebook accounts with tweets and tumblr posts, so they know what's going on in the fandom. Hugh finds his childlike enthusiasm infectious. 

The crew and the rest of the cast seems to find all of it—Bryan’s posts, Mads and Hugh’s humorous verbal sparring—hilarious. In one clip, Hugh is talking about his character to an interviewer and Mads is standing beside him, just watching his lips. It’s getting retweeted and retweeted and faved and retweeted. Hugh remembers the interview, remembers Mads’ eyes on him.

It’s hard to know with Mads when he is acting and when he is not. He wonders if Mads gets confused sometimes too.

One of his weekends in New York, Hugh shows Claire the clip and the comments.

"It’s NBC," he tells her, "they’re family-oriented."

She looks up from trying to get Cyrus to eat a mashed up banana. Cyrus shakes a tiny fist and says something sounding Klingonian to Hugh.

"Very good," Claire tells Cyrus.

"We shouldn’t get too … frivolous maybe," Hugh muses, "be less provocative."

"Provocative?" Claire draws her brows together. 

She removes her napkin out of Cyrus’ determined grip. 

"When I met you, you didn’t have these kind of concerns," Claire says, "why start now?"

"Maybe, because we live in New York now, not in London," Hugh replies, struggling to not sound impatient, "we’re not just some newcomers anymore."

Cyrus has begun trying to eat Claire’s bracelet and she is busy freeing it from his grip.

"What about some more banana?" she asks Cyrus who shakes his head. Claire begins to beg sweetly and at the end of it Cyrus opens his mouth and accepts a teaspoonful of banana. He preens as Claire praises him.

Hugh doesn’t interfere. He tried to explain a while ago why coddling babies like she does isn’t good parenting. Cyrus should eat when he’s hungry not to be rewarded by her praise. She wouldn’t listen. She usually listens to him, but strangely in this regard she is stubborn.

"Yeah, but it’s not as if you’re getting bad press," Claire says after a while, "people love you and Mads’ interaction. It makes you relatable. I don’t think NBC cares."

She gets up, lifting Cyrus high into the air. His laugh echoes in the kitchen area.

After a while he becomes aware of Claire still standing behind him, watching him. Cyrus watches him too, then winks at him, something he has picked up from his mother.

There is a moment of silence he intends to break at first, but for some reason he cannot find anything to say and the moment stretches into a small eternity.

"Are you ok?" she finally asks. She is asking something else perhaps: _Let me in._

There was a time when he could tell her everything. There was no truth that had the power to hurt them. There was a time when he was her world, the lens through which she viewed everything.

"I’m ok," he says.

Her face is unreadable, but she has understood what he really said. She remains standing for a while, awkwardly holding Cyrus, and he realises she is hoping he changes his mind.

He pretends to swipe at his iPad.

"I’m gonna go upstairs to the terrace, so we both catch a bit of sun," she says finally, on her way out.

 

He travels to Toronto alone this time. There are a lot of practical concerns leading to that decision—Claire has to stay back in New York because of meetings and interviews she has already agreed to and so on, and she will join him in a month she says, but whenever Hugh looks at her she looks away. 

He often starts, realising he’s been staring at his laptop screen for half an hour without seeing anything. He finds himself in the study, without any idea what he wanted to do in the first place. On days where he doesn’t need to be at the set, he wakes up at seven o’clock but stays in bed almost until noon, just looking at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his own breathing.

He runs a lot.

Running switches off his brain. He gets on the treadmill for a quick fifteen minute run, then realises he’s been on that treadmill for an hour, just staring into the void. He comes to himself because the machine is programmed to switch to cool down after sixty minutes.

Claire calls, whenever she finds time, which is not often. 

He likes when she calls from the terrace and he can see the roofs of New York behind her. He knows it’s selfish but sometimes he wishes she would call him without balancing Cyrus on her lap all the damned time. It’s like she and Cyrus have grown into a unit, a two-headed creature. He can’t have one without the other. For once he’d like to speak to Claire, the woman he once fucked through an entire weekend, not Claire, the mum, who cannot speak a complete sentence without interrupting herself to speak to Cyrus. 

Lately she calls him, and the call shows only Cyrus on her lap, and he can’t even talk properly yet. He loves Cyrus, he does, and he tries his best to be a good father, but sometimes he doesn’t know what Claire wants from him. She seems disappointed when he—politely—asks to speak to her after a few minutes of cooing and babbling with Cyrus.

"He misses you," she says.

"But do you miss me?" he wants to ask her. 

"I miss him too. I miss both of you," he says instead and realises only after he has spoken that he means it.

He wonders if she has another boy friend, another lover. He wonders if he is younger. He wonders if he is a model, milk-skinned, lithe, glowing with potential. She likes beautiful men, "chiselled good looks", has never made a secret out of it. He used to find that charming but lately it disquiets him. He knows he is not supposed to ask questions, knows she wouldn't either but if he is really honest with himself, he sometimes wonders why this seems so easy for her. He would have expected a little bit more jealousy from her, but it’s hard to bring that up, since he was the one to plan, propose and implement their open relationship.

Hugh hates the days when he’s not working. The minutes crawl past so slowly. He keeps himself busy, makes phone calls, networks, visits friends, attends parties and gatherings, goes for runs outside, politely smiling back at the people who recognise him. 

He knows Mads doesn’t seriously really intend to make good on his promise to expose him should he go cruising again, but he still holds off. He tries not to think about how little it bothers him. Is he getting old? Also, while Mads seems to be in control of himself on set, Hugh now knows that he is capable of acting without thinking, giving in to hateful urges.

Hugh has never been a revengeful or remotely violent person. On the contrary, his parents used to worry (jokingly) at his lack of anger. He went through a vaguely petulant phase when he was thirteen, but even then he was really more passive aggressive and sullen. He can never say with absolute clarity, what he feels. He is so used to his brain immediately taking over, rationalising, qualifying everything. He doesn’t know if he _feels_ anything really. Every feeling is filtered through layers of doubt and self-doubt: am I really seeing what I am seeing? Are my thoughts my own? Sometimes, maybe unfairly, he blames his father, who has always questioned the authenticity of Hugh’s thoughts, accused him playfully of parroting popular opinions. He may have been well-intentioned as parents generally are, but it has resulted in Hugh feeling he never owns the conclusions he comes to. 

Since this thing—whatever it is, whatever it was—with Mads ended (and surely it has ended after that night, right?), he is shocked to feel such pure fury, such hatred. It claws at his heart. It burns inside him, fills him with something bitter, something awful—but there is a clarity in it.

He hates him so much. The anger keeps him awake at night. He can’t stop thinking of it, even when he’s furiously jerking off. He always thinks of him, his smug face, his smirk, his coldness.

Hugh remembers the first day they met after that incident, at Bryan’s enormous hotel suite. They were going through scripts, reading, correcting, adding scenes. Hugh made a few suggestions but Mads interrupted him, jokingly demanding more sex scenes with Hugh, squeezing his shoulder.

Hugh laughed, although he felt his blood freeze. The nerve of this man. 

"But seriously now," Mads continued, "if Will Graham begins to manipulate Hannibal, he would know. I mean we build him up as someone who is like a … or superhuman, so if Will Graham begins to do all this shit—" he gestured at the drafts in front of him, "—he’d just kill him, right? So we need a reason why Hannibal doesn’t kill Will, despite the shit he is pulling. And that reason can only be, he is fascinated by Will, right, he’s—besotted—in love?"

Hugh felt annoyed that Mads was just repeating what he had brought up before, but now everyone was looking at Mads, as if he was a genius. 

"Yeah," Bryan enthused, "you’re absolutely right of course! That is exactly where we want to go!"

Mads seemed to be in excellent spirits. In a break he and a few other writers went out to smoke a cigarette. Hugh decided to get out of the suite too, get some fresh air. 

Mads acted friendly when a very pretty young girl recognised him, asked him for a picture. He posed with her and even hugged her as if they were friends. Hugh, who stood further away, closer to the entrance and in the shadows, had to fight back the urge to vomit. 

How dare he be so carefree and happy, grinning and joking as if nothing had ever happened. How dare he pretend to be this nice, approachable guy? Hugh could hear the girl say to her friend as they walked away, "he’s such a cutie! Did you see how he hugged me? He didn’t need to do that!"

Hugh wanted to punch Mads.

He went back into the hotel, escaping the bright, cold sunlight, anger boiling inside his guts.

 

Weeks and weeks go by. The hard work offers distraction. No time for pain.

He goes once to a restroom, outside of Toronto, and sucks a few cocks, jerking himself off. The experience leaves him weak-kneed, empty. When he leaves he forgets to put on his sunglasses and only remembers when he is in his car. 

They’re preparing the scene in which Hannibal confronts Will about sending Matthew Brown to kill him. 

Mads is leaning against his trailer, a parka over his dark suit, a few long pins in his hair. Wardrobe staff are fussing with his bold blue tie. He is not allowed to smoke like this, only when the woman has finished with him and he can close his parka. 

Then the make-up artist says something to him in a low voice and Mads guffaws a laugh, his eyes crinkled and his mouth wide open. 

Suddenly, as if he knows Hugh is there, Mads’ eyes are on him. They are set in Hannibal’s cold, bland mask, but the strangely wounded darkness in them is entirely Mads’.

He doesn’t exactly know why he is doing what he is doing just when no one is looking, Hugh lowers his lashes, snakes out the tip of his tongue, licks his lips, then locks eyes with Mads again.

For a moment Mads looks livid with rage, ready to strangle him and it sends shivers down his spine.

Then the AD calls them up and Mads and Hugh both move to the set.

Hugh enjoys taunting him in this scene although it is only make-believe. It feels strangely real. Throughout their scripted conversation he forgets the presence of the crew, the camera. He watches Mads morphing into Hannibal Lecter. Mads doesn’t even change his stance or his facial expression. It’s just as if Mads leaves and Hannibal’s ghost takes over his body. 

Mads is constantly joking and laughing between takes, but he looks hungover, exhausted. Once he forgets his lines, just looks at Hugh in his cage, lips slightly parted. Hugh waits for Mads’ lines, and flinches when the AD calls "cut". 

"Maybe he’s getting a bit too old to pull off elaborate gangbangs and orgies," Hugh thinks waspishly, while bestowing another toothy grin on Mads just to rile him up.

Mads laughs, and they start over.

It’s a good scene. He lets the hate he feels influence his performance.

Bryan is here, watching. 

"Wow," he says later, "intense." 

 

A few days later he sees one of Mads' insufferable dickhead-friends lurking around between the trailers. They’re not allowed on set but as long as it’s every now and then and they stay around the trailers no one says anything. Hugh doesn’t like how these two guys have already bonded with a few crew members over their poker games with Mads.

To avoid bumping into them he changes his course, walks around the cameras, the tracks, behind his trailer.

"—fucking depressed, man," he hears a heavily accented voice say.

"I don’t know. I haven’t noticed anything," another voice says, a mid-western American voice. Sounds like Pete, the camera man. 

"He did lose a massive amount of cash at Poker though, has Brad told you?"

"It doesn’t happen often, but it _does_ happen."

"Yeah, but it was a lot, and he didn’t even like, react."

It’s true; if anyone takes Poker seriously it’s Mads. He takes losing personally—it’s not even about the money. Hugh leans at the back of the trailer. So what if he’s listening in. 

"Okay … so … what?"

"Yeah, you know Mads. That’s not like him."

"Don’t know what to say, man. He’s been partying pretty hard these last weeks, work hard, play hard, that’s him."

"Just saying, he’s a bit off, ’s all."

Hugh pushes himself off the trailer and quietly continues his way to the restroom.

 

The phone rings around six o’clock that night. 

It’s Hugh’s day off and he has spent it by re-reading James Baldwin which has put him in a weird melancholic, yet restless mood.

Only one ring, but Hugh immediately checks his phone. 

It’s Mads.

Hugh sets the phone in front of the table, just looking at it, waiting for Mads to call again, but the display remains dark.

Simply to kill time he starts grinding a tiny bump of coke onto the glass surface with his Starbucks point card, then cutting it up. He spends almost fifteen minutes just doing that, just grinding, cutting, making a neat line, cutting it again, occasionally glancing at the phone.

After half an hour he finally snorts the line and comes to a decision.

Wrapped in a japanese yukata bathrobe, he peruses his shower heads. Tonight he picks the slimmest one, then screws the small nozzle onto it. Turning on the warm water he climbs into the tub, lowering himself onto his knees and slowly inserts it into his hole, avoiding teasing himself with it. Still, whenever the warmed sleek metal slides over his prostate his cock twitches. He grits his teeth, exhales, focussing on the warm water filling him up.

Meanwhile his inner voice keeps berating him: to go back to this man—it’s beyond masochistic. This is straight out self-destructive. And yet he cannot stop himself. He went so far with Mads, why stop now, he catches himself thinking.

He is lost. Somewhere along the way he has fucked up. It’s just not clear to him, what he could have done differently. He looks up at the mirror and sees himself—on his knees, shower head stuck in his ass, his cock leaking pre-cum already, his eyes wild.

Shuddering, he resists temptation and pulls the shower head out, unscrews the steel rod and the nozzle and washes it carefully with antibacterial detergent. For a while he clenches, holding the water in, before the pressure and the fullness gets unbearable, and he lets it all out. 

Only for fucking, Hugh tells himself.

Later he takes a hot bath, into which he has poured various soaps and bath oils. A sweet flower-smell rises with the steam and fills the bath room. After shaving the coarse stubble on his legs and arms and the few hairs growing on his chest, he lies back in the warm water, spreading his legs, and shaves the softer hair around his cock and his hole. 

As insufferable and hateful Mads is, he needs his cock. It’s as simple as that. Nothing more, nothing less.

He tells himself that Mads leaves him no other option than himself. He did threaten Hugh with exposure if he were to look for sexual gratification somewhere else. He did act out when Hugh let himself be picked up by Dejan. 

It is a good excuse, almost solid, almost believable.

 

His hole had been deflowered by an art student from London he had met at a friend’s party. 

It had begun with an innocent blow job. He still remembers Laura’s hair tickling his belly, then her hands on the insides of his thighs. 

When she touched his hole, he nearly clamped his legs shut. 

"What are you doing?" he laughed, awkwardly shifting on the bed.

"Wait for it," she said, prodding his hole. 

It felt weird.

"I don’t know about that," he said but she only sucked harder and deeper and suddenly her finger slipped inside. He bucked, tried to instinctively push her out. 

He laid back, slightly confused. After a while he got used to the sensation in his bum.

He could feel her wriggling her finger a bit, as if looking for something and it began to feel nice. 

She hummed around his cock, then did something with her finger, and suddenly his jaw went slack and his eyes rolled back. 

He realised he was clenching around her finger.

"Unnf," he muttered.

She smirked, then began to rhythmically press and he came so hard he saw spots and then blacked out.

He wonders if she ever regretted showing him that spot. It wasn’t his first sexual experience, and it wasn’t that fucking didn’t hold any appeal for him any longer, but nothing compared to that feeling of something rubbing and pressing against his prostate and he quickly got addicted to it.

Soon he realised one finger wasn’t enough any longer. He needed more, but did not want to ask. They never really spoke during sex anyway. He was usually lying on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes because he could not bear the sight of himself, his legs spread. Once when he was writhing for more than fifteen minutes without getting closer to his orgasm, Laura let his cock slide out of her painted mouth to look at him, in an almost pensive manner while continuing to stroke him inside.

Then after a while he felt her withdraw. He swallowed, barely managing to hold himself back from begging her to continue. She poured more lube onto her hand, and sat up, inserting two fingers into his hole. 

He still remembers the burn, the fullness, and that strange, heady shame. Wasn’t he supposed to take her, to dominate, to take charge? And here he was, letting her take him.

She twisted her fingers, and he cried out, arching up.

Although he desperately wanted her to she did not speed up, but instead inserted a third finger.

She continued to look at him, and he knew if he said something she’d stop. 

He didn’t want her to stop. 

He noticed she had stopped sucking his dick, and it was still rock hard. It had begun dripping clear fluid onto his belly.

With her knowing smirk she leaned over him, then put her other hand onto his chest, her index finger toying with his nipple.

He pushed back, relishing that burning pain, and the low, honey-sweet pleasure uncoiling underneath. He heard himself panting in the quiet of the room, then moaning.

Suddenly there was a noise from the hallway and he could hear Laura’s brother’s loud, booming voice. He couldn’t help imagining him bursting in, seeing what she was doing to him, what he let her do, and in that moment he came, ropes of hot, white cum spraying over his belly and his chest.

From that moment on it became his go-to fantasy. Whenever things got slow he imagined himself, naked, his legs spread and he imagined random strangers finding him, watching him, mocking and berating him, and then he would cum in thick, creamy spurts.

Laura went back to London after this summer. Hugh was heartbroken, but after a week he realised he had a bigger problem—he had to learn to finger-fuck himself. It wasn’t as good when he did it himself—maybe it was the angle. His left arm cramped fast, and his fingers were bony and thin and somehow never enough.

Soon he began to crave something thicker in his hole, and eventually he caved and wrapped a long fat cigar case into one of those lubricated condoms, then inserted it into his wet hole.

It was one of the best ideas he had ever had. He came three times that night. 

A few months months after Laura had left, she sent him a gift. He opened the box, and stared at the contents, a black slim dildo with a small bottle of lube.

He can’t remember how often he came that night but during the last two times he fucked himself his cock remained exhausted and spent. He still came though, moaning and whimpering, his legs spread and in the air, stuffing his fist into his mouth to keep himself from crying out. 

 

He towels himself dry carefully, then stands in front of the floor length mirror, pensive. The hairless legs are slender, albeit muscular. His upper body is stockier than it used to be. The intensified workouts, the emphasis on weight training is part of his (or really his agent’s) re-branding strategy and he is still not sure if he likes the new bulk. 

He has removed his stubble, even shaved the sideburns, so his face looks a bit more oval, softer. 

He gives himself a final push, opens the mirror and pulls out a large white Muji container, then places it onto the white bathroom tiles. He takes out the pink bottle of fragrant oil he keeps in there. It smells heavy and too sweet, but he likes the whorishness of it.

He lifts his leg, and begins to apply the oil, admiring how his skin acquires a sleek shine. He even works the oil into his long toes, massages it into his heel, arching his foot. 

The oil contains particles, adding shimmer, and he likes how his skin glows. Standing at the tub, one foot planted on the rim, he then paints the toe nails in a bright blood red colour.

In the beginning of their relationship he loved doing that together with Claire—just being a girl, being girls together: having wonderfully smooth deliciously smelling skin, wearing lots of silk and satin—instead of being scandalised, she had been enthusiastic: she even bought him expensive laced knickers as a gift for his birthday, another time a pair of patent leather stiletto heels. 

He takes out a black satin corset, runs his hands over the smooth surface. It takes longer to pull the laces closed than when Claire does it. Careful not to tear flimsy silk garments with his blunt fingernails, he rummages around in the box, then picks fishnet stockings and black laced knickers. Finally he slips into the stiletto heels.

Good. 

Once he is satisfied with his look he takes off the heels and packs them into a weekend bag, together with his short, black Burberry satin trench coat and small black M.A.C. bag containing his make-up.

He puts on soft sweatpants, which feel weird over the fishnet stockings, and a dark blue adidas hoodie, dons his shades, his baseball cap. 

He calls his driver, who picks him up within half an hour. Reliable man. 

Hugh makes some small talk, feeling nervous. The driver (Hugh has forgotten his name, and he just can’t bring himself to ask him), doesn’t notice, focussed on the heavy Friday night traffic, gives monosyllabic answers.

A boy on a bike snakes in between the cars, abruptly turns right and flits in front of Hugh’s car, a streak of yellow and orange light. The driver hits the brakes.

"Crazy kids," the driver mumbles without heat.

He stops in front of Mads’ hotel.

"Would you like me to wait? "

He doesn’t turn around, just stares straight ahead with a bored mien.

Hugh shakes his head. "I’ll be fine."

The man nods and drives off. Clutching his weekend bag Hugh enters the brightly lit lobby, but no one pays him attention and he saunters to the lift. 

Now comes the trickier part: He gets out on the second floor—Hugh knows there are public toilets, past the restaurant and the bar. He finds a cubicle, pulls the seat cover down and sits on it, pushes the sweatpants down, packs them into his bag, takes out the heels and slips into them.

He pulls out the black M.A.C. toiletry bag.

Studying his face in the small portable mirror of his powder case, he begins to methodically apply black eyeliner. His hand is steady, practised. He knows how to create that little kitten flick at the outer eye corner. He smoothes metallic cream eye shadow on his eyelids, then strategically applies highlighter, skilfully softening the angles of his face, and blush to bring out the blue of his eyes. He finishes by coating his long lashes with black mascara. 

For a moment he thinks of just putting on some sheer lipgloss but then opts for a fiery red Chanel lipstick, imagining with a smirk how his lips will look, wrapped around Mads' cock. Meticulously he applies a lipliner, careful to emphasise the Cupid’s bow, then fills the lips with the blood red colour, adjusts the outline with the tip of his index finger. Standing up, he slips into the short black Burberry satin trench coat he pulls out of the bag and belts it tightly around his waist, puts his shades back on. The final touch is the red lacquer he paints his nails with. He is quick and efficient with his brush strokes—Claire claims he is better than her which is possible since she never wears nail polish.

He waits a few minutes, scrolling through messages and his Guardian news feed while listening to a few men coming in and pissing and leaving, some of them without washing their hands.

Fortunately no one is in the bathroom when he leaves the cubicle. On the way back to the elevator he checks his appearance in various mirrors. He finds the contrast of his painted lips to his masculine jaw, the muscular arms to his cinched waist, the strong, albeit slim fingers with the gleaming nail polish appealing. 

He throws himself a lopsided smile.

Shortly before he arrives at Mads' suite his confidence falters. What if he is in the midst of fucking someone else? What if he is completely uninterested in Hugh, has already forgotten him? What if no one is here, what if they have gone out? What if Mads has people from the set over? 

Then he finds himself already standing before Mads’ door. He can hear loud, appalling house music and Mads’ dumb friends’ voices. Too late to turn around now. 

He knocks.

He can hear someone shuffling towards the door, then a thick cloud of smoke envelopes him as Tim peers out of the door crack. Tim’s jaw drops, his eyes bulging as he steps back, opening the door. He is completely speechless.

Hugh, having regained his confidence, steps into the suite.

Ah, it’s business as usual. The TV is on, only tonight it’s neither porn nor a footie match but some music channel. Mads is sitting on the couch, beside a guy with dreadlocks who is wearing a Thrasher sweater, Hugh has never seen before. The couch table is covered with drugs strewn haphazardly strewn on the glass surface.

Someone is planing on having a big night.

There are bags of white, yellow and green pills, white envelopes of coke or something else to snort, short straws, razor blades, cards and small bottles filled with clear liquid.

Dreadlock guy is pocketing a fat wad of cash while gesturing towards the paper rectangles, "so and there we have something fine for the nose." 

Mads isn’t listening to the guy any longer. He is staring at Hugh, the expression on his face cartoonishly dumbstruck: his mouth hanging open, his jaw slack. This alone is worth it, Hugh thinks, Mads’ stupid face. Holding Mads’ gaze he slowly walks up to the coffee table, swaying his hips.

"Celebrating?" he asks.

Dreadlock guy presses his thumb against his nose and mimes snorting. 

“Yeah, partying,” he says and laughs.

Mads still doesn’t pay attention, his eyes locked onto Hugh who is unbuttoning his trench. Mads’ eyes wander down to Hugh’s fingernails, then to his legs clad in the fishnet stockings. 

Hugh looks down at him, smirking, lets the trench fall off his shoulders. By now everyone in the room has stopped talking. From the corner of his eye he can see Tim massaging his cock. 

With the palms of his hands he caresses the hourglass curve of the corset, pushing it down so just his nipples peek out. He kneads his own buttocks, strokes his hardening cock in the laced knickers. 

From where Hugh stands he can see the outline of Mads' cock in his tight jeans. He is hard too. 

Emboldened, he slips his fingers between his red lips and sucks them obscenely, licks them and coats them with saliva, before removing them teasing his nipples into stiff, swollen peaks.

Mads grabs his own cock, presses his palm against it. His chest is heaving.

"Man, you look like you need a line," dreadlock guy says, and pushes one of the short straws into Mads' fingers; he takes it without looking away from Hugh, then bends down and snorts the fat line dreadlock guy has laid out for him.

Hugh raises an eyebrow. It’s a seriously big line.

Dreadlock guy courteously cuts another, albeit much smaller line and offers it to Hugh. Hugh bends down to pluck a straw from the coffee table, then snorts half of the line before he notices a funny taste in the back of his throat.

"You’re a fucking machine!"

Dreadlock guy laughs at Mads who puts down the straw slowly, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, then shaking his head like a dog, blinking furiously.

Hugh swallows and he too places the straw back on the table, trying to suss out the definitely not-coke bitterness, the much too strong sting in his nose. It felt like snorting ground glass. He can only hope the idiot didn’t give them K.

Mads is frowning.

"This," they both say slowly, "is not coke."

Dreadlock guy laughs again.

"It is, it is. IT. FUCKING. IS. It’s excellent coke, will blow your brain out," he says, bobbing his head to the music, "but it’s more than that—a bit of pure, high quality acid from Goa aaaand a bit of ecstasy. It’s my favourite mix, man!"

Mads bolts from the sofa, even before dreadlock guy has finished speaking, and into the bathroom, where he tries to heave into the toilet. 

"Shit, you gave him E?" Tim groans.

"What? It’s on the house! For the guest of honour!" Dreadlock guy gets defensive.

"Mads doesn’t do E, it really fucks him up," Tim tells dreadlock guy.

Hugh sighs, removing his shades. 

Great. Just great.

"Bullshit, E doesn’t fuck up anyone. If E fucks him up, it’s because he had bad stuff. But my Es are pure, they’re excellent quality! It won’t fuck no one up!"

After a few horrific moments of listening to Mads trying to vomit, Tim and some other guys start berating dreadlock guy.

When Mads appears in the doorframe of the bathroom again, dreadlock dude starts laughing.

"Dafuq are you doing, you can’t throw that shit up, you snorted it—it’s going right into your brain!" 

Mads looks as if he’s about to murder someone.

"Okay," he snarls, "Everyone. Out." 

He seems to have splashed his face with water. His eyes are wide, and his breathing is shallow. He seems to be on the verge of a panic attack. Hugh has never seen him like this before.

"Leave," Mads suddenly roars, " _Go!_ "

Hastily everyone jumps up, grabbing beer cans and vodka bottles, jackets and scarfs and flees. It’s a veritable exodus, like passengers of the sinking Titanic running to the lifeboats.

Hugh just wishes he’d stayed home. Right now he could have been binge-watching Netflix, emptying a nice bottle of wine, ordering in pho, using up his little stash of leftover coke from last weekend.

He too decides to leave, picks up his trench coat and follows the boys. Tim tries to push past him, and Hugh manages to get hold of his arm.

"Hey, not so fast—aren’t you Mads’ best friend? Shouldn’t you stay? To make sure he’s okay?"

Tim rolls his eyes.

"Mads," he yells, without taking his eyes off Hugh, "do you want me to st—"

"Fuck off!"

Tim yanks his arm free.

"You heard the man!" Tim shrugs, raising his hands in an insincere gesture of apology, and is out of the door.

Well, then. 

Somewhat relieved, Hugh also turns towards the door. 

"Can you stay with me?" Mads asks, his voice rough, when he is about to turn the door knob.

Hugh closes his eyes.

_Fuck._

He could pretend to not have heard him, and leave. Just yank the door open and step out. Mads’ voice wasn’t very loud, he could have just…not…heard it.

Right.

Hesitantly, he steps a bit closer to Mads.

"Actually … I have to get up early tomorrow," he lies.

Mads doesn’t reply. He has slid down to the ground and is now sitting cross-legged, his back against the doorframe, face in his hands.

"Why don’t you … er … just sleep it off. Drink water, take a xanax, smoke some weed ... the usual. You’ll be fine tomorrow," Hugh suggests.

Mads looks up; his pupils are so far dilated, they have blotted out the amber of his irises. 

Oh god, the E has already kicked in. Well, the idiot did snort it.

"You’ll be okay," Hugh repeats, fully aware he sounds even less convincing than the first time.

"But I don’t feel … good," Mads says.

Hugh shifts his weight. 

Mads buries his face in his hands. "I shouldn’t take E," he says, "it’s bad for me."

"Should have thought of that before snorting almost 1G of that stuff then," Hugh thinks. 

This mess is really not his business. 

Hugh takes a very careful step back, looking longingly at the hotel door.

"Oh, better get some rest then—whoa."

Mads' hand has shot out and grabbed his ankle, pulling Hugh towards him. Hugh, losing his balance, lands on his bum.

"Don’t leave me," Mads says, desperation lacing his voice, clutching Hugh’s ankle.

"You’ve got some fucking nerve," Hugh hisses, "after what you did last time we met."

From the way his heart beats, he can feel the E is hitting him too. He hasn’t ingested as much as Mads did, but it feels strong. Dreadlock guy was a fucking idiot but he sure wasn’t lying about his Es.

"But…you’re here," Mads says, then frowns, as if realising something. "You came."

Hugh tries to pull his ankle free, only Mads’ grip is like steel.

"Let … go … of … me." 

He aims a kick with his other foot at Mads’ knee but before the killer stiletto connects with the bone, Mads’ other hand grabs his ankle and he is now completely trapped.

With a groan, Hugh lets himself fall backwards on the carpet. The ceiling above him looks like swathes of white silk, billowing in the wind. He blinks, narrows his eyes, forcing the silk to turn into a ceiling again.

Oh God. He is alone with Mads.

Why. Why is this happening to him? Why is he in this room? With a fucked up, overdosed Mads? It’s all his own fault but he’d love to have someone else to blame.

"I called you," Mads says, "but then I remembered what I did. And then I hung up."

His thumb begins to circle his anklebone in a distracting way.

"Stop that," Hugh snaps.

Mads lets go of Hugh’s ankle like a scolded dog.

"Please don’t leave," he says, his voice strangled.

Hugh feels his throat constrict slightly and swallows a few times.

From the corner of his eyes, the cheap imitation brass of the coffee table legs turn into molten gold. The walls are lavender-coloured waterfalls.

It’s getting hotter and hotter.

"Your corset," Mads says in a slurring voice. 

Hugh looks down at himself, remembering his getup. 

Mads blinks, then shakes his head as if to try regain clarity.

"I don’t know. Maybe like … it looks like the night. Like you are wearing the night. It…"

He falls silent.

The whole room falls silent with him. Behind them the TV emits static noise. 

When Hugh looks at Mads, he is looking down at his legs, caressing them again.

"Mads," Hugh says, but he’s not entirely sure what it is he wants to say. His voice comes out as a whisper.

When Mads finally lifts his face his eyes are even darker than before, purple coloured, diabolic. 

Then, just like that, he lays both his hands onto Hugh’s thighs, rough palms catching at the fishnet stockings.

"No," Hugh wants to say, but no sound comes out. His lips form a silent o. 

"I want," Mads murmurs. He lays a heavy hand onto Hugh’s knickers, blunt fingers caressing the lace, the tiny satin bow sewn across the waistband.

"Is this ok?" he asks.

Mads pulls down the knickers, slowly, inch by inch as if he is savouring undressing Hugh, unwrapping him as if he were a present, as if he has never seen him naked before.

Hugh tris to shrug away the peculiar mood Mads seems to be in now. 

"I always like fucking."

"Of course. I know." 

Mads breathes against his cock, then licks the shaft.

"It’s all you care about."

His voice sounds rough.

"Stop," Hugh feels he needs to say, but he can’t—before he utters a word, Mads has taken his cock into his mouth. 

The sucking wetness and heat is overwhelming; Hugh’s vision whites out.

"I wanted to try this for a long time," Mads mumbles, stroking his glistening cock. He licks again. Hugh moans, his hips twitching.

"It’s good," Mads says.

Hugh pushes himself up on his elbows, gazing down at Mads.

He looks like a starving man, Hugh thinks, intrigued.

Mads licks up his shaft, then suckles at the glans and Hugh throws his head back, moans louder than he intended to. When he looks back at Mads, he is smiling around Hugh’s needy cock. 

"Do you have your cock sucked often?" Mads inquires.

"No," Hugh says, "I don’t really like it."

At that Mads looks up, then directs a pointed glance at Hugh’s rock hard erection and the drop of pre-cum welling out of his slit.

"Not sure if I should believe you."

When Hugh wants to protest once more, Mads almost gently wraps his lips around his cock. His brows are furrowed in concentration and he emits sounds of pleasure himself as if has never tasted anything better than Hugh’s cock.

One of Mads fingers strokes his perineum, then circles his hole.

It’s not how it should be. 

It’s the wrong script, Hugh thinks, this is not what he likes.

Mads releases a sigh, a strange, mournful sound, swallows around his cock and at the same time pushes his finger into Hugh’s pulsing, waiting hole. Hugh gasps and arches up. Twisting his upper body he reaches for the trench coat, searches the pockets with shaking fingers until he finds the small bottle of lube. Mads plucks it out of his hand immediately, and pours it onto his fingers, onto Hugh’s hole, then inserts another finger.

It slides in easily. 

"Did you play with yourself before?" Mads asks.

Hugh nods, smiling. Sweat is beading on his forehead, dripping down his nose. 

"Maybe others did," he says teasingly.

"You feel as if you’re cumming the whole time," Mads observes, "I know how your hole feels when you cum."

Mads is right. The slightest movement of his fingers feels like an orgasm in itself, leaves him shuddering, panting. Every time he pushes in, it’s as if he is touching something deep inside him that makes him convulse. 

His eyes roll back as he briefly imagines what kind of picture he makes, lying on the floor, his legs spread, Mads fingering him. Imagine if someone were to come in, seeing him like this, and he couldn’t prevent his cock dripping, couldn't stop himself shaking with need.

Mads groans, unzipping his pants, pulling his cock out and squeezing the lube over it. Hugh watches, fascinated, as the lube drips down onto the round glans, covers the fat, veiny shaft. 

Mads slowly removes his fingers.

He looks at Hugh’s face with an expression Hugh does not want to see.

He can’t bear it.

"I don’t like you like this," he says. It’s not untrue. He is not lying. Usually he doesn’t. He doesn’t like one-to-one sex, he doesn’t like missionary, he doesn’t like normal. Normal doesn’t make him hard.

He needs to be fucked and humiliated, and treated like a whore, he craves the debasement. He revels in his fantasy of being a pathetic cum slut who’d do anything for cock. 

Then Mads pushes his cock in, and Hugh cries out with pleasure. His own cock is twitching, releasing a string of clear pre-cum.

With his other hand Mads begins to circle and play with Hugh’s nipples and oh god it feels so good.

Above him, Mads, pulls his sweater over his head, hastily pushes his socks off, wriggles impatiently out of his trousers.

It feels odd to Hugh. He rarely sees his men naked—he doesn’t like it because it makes them seem vulnerable, and vulnerability is a kink he wants reserved for his own displays so mostly he is the one naked and exposed while the men fucking him have to be dressed, with only their cocks out. He doesn’t want to see more of them.

Now it is the other way around: while Hugh is clothed—he is still wearing his corset, his halterless fishnet stockings and high heels—Mads is completely naked. Hugh wants to be turned off by it, as he would be otherwise, but instead he is transfixed by Mads’ shoulders, his strong arms.

"Fucking on E isn’t bad," he grinds out, in an attempt to disrupt the tension between them and to remind both of them that all of this isn’t real.

Mads gazes down at him, his face unreadable in the half light of the hotel room.

"This isn’t just the E," he says finally.

He pushes himself up into a kneeling position and pulls Hugh closer to him, placing his legs onto his shoulders, then begins kissing his calves and stroking his shins. Another wave of heat washes over them. They breathe in burning air. (For a brief moment Hugh imagines they are in a desert of some sort. The ceiling above them splits open and the sun burns down on them. He blinks and the hallucination dissolves.)

He tries to get Mads to stop his caresses and shifts his legs. Mads looks at him, a light, barely noticeable smile, only in the corners of his mouth, then pushes in deeper, and whatever Hugh intended to say or do just evaporates. 

There is only the sensation.

"How do you feel?" Mads asks.

"Good," Hugh has to admit. 

"I won’t let you go," Mads sudenly says.

Hugh shakes his head, tries again to lean on his elbows, to find his way out of this haze, but then Mads pushes in again, and Hugh can only close his eyes again, crying out in bliss.

"You heard me. You belong to me."

Mads slides in so deep, Hugh’s "no" breaks and crumbles into a lustful moan. If he could only resist, Hugh thinks. This is not the game he came to play. 

Today Mads stopped playing.

He tries to think of ways to turn it around. To make this game his again.

He debases himself—calls himself a slut, a whore, but all the while he also watches Mads, watches every movement of his face, records every blink, every flutter of his lashes, every twitch of his lips. 

He continues to stroke Hugh’s legs, the wonder in his eyes almost childlike. Hugh doesn’t understand all his mutterings, but between them he presses kisses onto Hugh’s thighs and shins, leaves little bites, licks at the sweat on his calves.

"Such a good whore," Mads praises him in a low voice, rough around the edges.

"Mmmh," Hugh agrees. 

"Such an eager, greedy slut."

His voice is like smoke, feels like a caress itself.

Hugh makes the mistake of looking directly into Mads' eyes. 

They are too dark, they want too much. 

"Don’t look at me like that," Hugh grits out, suddenly angry. 

Mads does not stop fucking him. His thrusts don’t falter but he averts his eyes.

"Look how wet you are," Mads croons, and presses a heavy palm onto Hugh’s cock, the tip dripping with clear precum, “look at your stiff clit.”

When he opens his eyes, Mads is too close, only a few inches away from his face.

He shoves weakly at his chest.

Mads speeds up his thrusts, and there is so much emotion in his eyes—Hugh doesn’t know why he is doing it but he awkwardly lays his palm onto Mads’ cheek and caresses it. 

"Good?" Mads asks again between thrusts, his voice rough, then manages to push into Hugh’s sweet spot and Hugh cries out again.

"Yes," Hugh groans, "very."

Without warning, Mads surges against Hugh and shocked, Hugh feels Mads’ lips pressed against his, then his tongue searching his, licking inside his mouth. 

Mads is whimpering.

"I don’t kiss," Hugh thinks, “I never do.”

He wants to push Mads off in protest, but before he even finishes thinking this very thought he is wailing into Mads’ mouth as he comes and comes and comes.

Greedily he sucks at Mads’ tongue, devours the heat of his mouth.

He can have this for now. He is just high, it’s ok. It doesn’t mean anything.

Mads is close, his entire body shaking, his fingers gripping his hips and shoulders, pulling him close, mumbling nonsensically.

A shudder runs through Mads’ body—tensing up, he is clutching at Hugh like a drowning man.

"I love you," he murmurs, and then he comes, pulsing into Hugh, filling him with his hot cum.

Hugh pulls back slowly, dismayed at this body’s strange resistance to separating from Mads. It is both being in sexual frenzy and being drugged, he assumes.

He refuses to acknowledge Mads’ words just now.

Above him, Mads is looking down at him, streaks of silver and grey hair falling into his eyes, his lips red from Hugh’s lipstick, a smear of black mascara on his cheekbone.

He remains hard for quite a few minutes, giving tiny little thrusts. It takes a while for Mads to pull out, still half-hard. 

Such a beautiful cock—glistening with lube and cum, long, veiny, fat, curved upwards, crowned with a large mushroom head.

Hugh caresses it, admiring its perfect form, refusing to look up and meet Mads’ eyes.

Mads lies down beside him, leaving a heavy arm across Hugh’s chest. 

"Have you ever spent a summer at the ocean?" Mads asks, "it’s… I feel I’m back in that summer where I went to the sea with my parents."

"Mads," Hugh says, pronouncing his name wrong, pressing his tongue against his teeth when he says the ‘d’, "you’re high as fuck. Don’t tell me your deepest secrets, your childhood memories now—you’re going to regret it tomorrow."

Mads only hums. 

"I’d forgotten about it," Mads murmurs, "I’ve just … why do I remember now?"

He is lying on his side, playing with Hugh’s curls, raking his fingers through them, again and again.

"I've already been in love with a boy once," Mads says.

Hugh closes his eyes.

"Mads—"

Mads pushes himself up on his elbows and peers at Hugh’s face.

"No, I swear—it is true. It was a long time ago—and I wasn’t sure at first if he was a girl or a boy. The first time I saw him he looked like a girl. He had long black hair. Green eyes. Dark skin. His parents were artists. They lived close to the holiday house we had rented for the summer."

Mads takes a deep breath, shuddering. 

"Of course I knew he was a boy. I didn’t want to admit it to myself. Even at that age I knew there was something wrong about loving a another boy—so the simplest solution to me was to pretend he was a girl."

Mads swallows, then clears his voice.

"Mads," Hugh says again, wondering why his voice sounds so gentle. "Stop."

Mads stares at him for a long time, then slowly shakes his head.

"I can’t. Don’t ask that of me."

"This is not real. We are not lovers. We are just two people getting high and fucking in a hotel room."

Mads contemplates his words.

"If it is not real, and if this is just me being high, it should be over in a few hours. No harm done."

"I’m just trying to spare you the embarrassment," Hugh says.

"You’ve known me for ten years now. You think I would be embarrassed?"

Mads' touch is burning his skin. Hugh suppresses a shudder.

"What are you afraid of?"

"I’m afraid you might misunderstand what we are doing." Hugh tries to scoot back, but Mads scoots closer.

Mads raises an eyebrow.

"Don’t say these things," Hugh says, feeling as if he’s choking, "you’re not in love. I’m not in love."

Mads looks so different with his black eyes now. 

"Anyway, why can’t you take E?" Hugh inquires, to change the topic. "Are you allergic to it?"

Mads shakes his head.

"Eh, I don’t like it."

Hugh lies back down, stares at the ceiling.

"Right," he says, more to himself, then pulls himself up to a sitting position. "I think I’ll leave you to it, and I’ll get an Uber home."

"You said you were staying," Mads reminds him.

"And I thought you had a serious problem with E," Hugh says, "it turns out you just don’t like it. I’m sorry but that is really not my problem."

"But why did you come here in the first place?"

"Because I planned on getting gangbanged by you and your shithead friends," Hugh replies.

"You just wanted cock."

There is a slight pause in which Hugh takes in the accusatory tone.

"Yes," he intones slowly, "that was indeed my nefarious plan. I wanted you all to fuck me, cum on my face, treat me like shit until I got off and then I wanted to get out of here."

"Is that all you ever want?"

Hugh blinks, then frowns. 

"Well, I also want a deeper understanding of my purpose in life, of the workings of the universe, a nice big villa in the Hamptons and I’d like to improve my golf score. But in the meantime I’ll also take all the cocks I can get, if that is alright with you."

"I can fuck you," Mads says, "I’ll fuck you. I’m hard again."

Hugh laughs.

"But then you have to stay with me."

Hugh stops laughing. "What?"

"You heard me, I fuck you until you cum, but then you can’t just leave. You have to stay with me until the E wears off. Until tomorrow or longer."

Hugh regards him with narrowed eyes.

"You’re pretty tall and heavy, I guess it won’t take long until you’re good, and th E is out of your system," he relents finally.

Mads begins to stroke and pinch Hugh’s nipples.

With the drug in his system the sensation is more intense. Hugh gasps, arches into Mads’ hand.

Mads smiles a toothy grin, then bends down and takes Hugh’s nipple between his teeth, gently worrying it, playing with his warm tongue, teasing it.

With one hand he palms Hugh’s cock. Then he pulls back, looking down on Hugh with the strangest expression.

"How can a man be so beautiful," he murmurs. He touches Hugh’s face with reverent fingers.

Hugh regards him with heavy lidded eyes.

He can’t say if he likes this version of Mads. 

Then, just like that, Mads kisses him. For a moment Hugh parts his lips, letting Mads in, tastes beer, the bitterness of the drug, warmth and something earthy. Everything in Hugh’s body responds to Mads, and he hears himself sighing.

Hugh pushes Mads away.

"I know this is a cliché," he says, "but kissing is not my thing. I don’t—it’s a bit personal. You just caught me by surprise before." 

Mads only blinks.

"Okay," he says, confused, “but you really liked it before.”

Hugh shrugs. 

“As I said—I was distracted.”

Mads swallows then continues watching Hugh, as he plays with his nipples and rubbing his cock through his knickers. He settles between Hugh’s legs.

"I am sorry but I cannot do what you like, today," he says, his voice heavy. 

Hugh, feeling his grasp on reality slipping, manages to open his mouth.

"What do you mean?"

"I can’t be … rough with you," Mads clarifies, "not today."

Hugh needs to lie back on the carpet and look at the gently swaying ceiling for a while.

When he finds the strength to move his head a few inches and look down, he sees Mads has been looking at him the whole time.

"I need my men rough," Hugh says.

They are both quiet for a while after that.

Mads is frowning again, putting on his thinking face. "So today isn’t good? You’re hard."

It’s unfortunately true. 

"But you don’t hate it, right? You don’t hate fucking me like a whore.”

Mads snorts, pushes his fingers into Hugh’s wet, stretched hole, and he gasps. 

“I fucking love it,” Mads says.

He slides in deeper, stroking Hugh’s sweet spot. 

“Nngh,” Hugh’s eyes roll up, and his tongue snakes out between his lips.

“When I saw you being fucked by all these men in the park, I almost came in my pants.”

Mads seems to find it hard to shut up. 

“But sometimes I want something different.” 

He leans closer to Hugh, takes his earlobe between sharp teeth, then bites the soft skin of his neck, while twisting his fingers inside him.

“I want to fuck you alone sometimes, only the two of us. What do you think?”

His fingers feel so good inside, Hugh only moans quietly, unable to focus on Mads’ incessant babbling. Mads increases the pressure and the pleasure becomes unbearable.

“This feels good, yes?”

Hugh nods, his mind fuzzy. 

“Say yes,” Mads urges.

“Hm?” Hugh spreads his legs, pushes back against Mads’ clever fingers, “what?”

Mads pulls them out. Hugh whimpers, feeling empty, his hole clenching around nothing.

“Say yes,” Mads whispers again, his tone urgent.

“Ok … yes?” Hugh finally says, confused, eager to feel Mads’ fingers inside him again.

Mads grins. 

“Good,” he whispers, “very good!” 

Before Hugh can ask what he means by that, Mads pulls him close, flush to his body, then enters him and Hugh cries out, unable to think of anything anymore.


End file.
